Desert Sunrise
by Pablosky
Summary: The prequel of ECLIPSE, dealing with mostly original characters, but still in the MGS universe.
1. Introduction

_Warning: The following content has been rated R by the author, reasons being violence, adult themes and offensive language._

"_I _was born on a battlefield. Raised on a battlefield. Gunfire, sirens and screams... they were my lullabies... Hunted like dogs day after day... driven from our ragged shelters... That... was my life. Each morning, I'd wake up... and find a few more of my family or friends dead beside me. I'd stare at the morning sun... and pray to make it through the day. The governments of the world turned a blind eye to our misery. But then... he appeared. My

... Saladin... he took me away from all that..._"_

_-FOXHOUND member Sniper Wolf, Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes._

Metal Gear Solid

ECLIPSE TEAM:

Desert Sunrise

By Pablo N. Naso

Dedicated to:

-My family. They know who they are.

-My friends, for supporting my creativity.

-To all the casualties of the Iraq War; Iraqi and non-Iraqi, American and Non-American.

-To all the victims of the Halabja massacre and victims of Saddam Hussein's regime in general; including Kurds, Shiites, or Non-Iraqis.

-Hideo Kojima, for creating the very first Post-Modernist game ever, and thus helping me create this.

-All the Websites that provided information and help for this, including WorldGuns and others.

-My friends Lance, Bruce, and Daniela, coz' they were the ones that kept me going and flattered me the most...


	2. Chapter 1: Suffering

Chapter 1: Suffering.

"_The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing."_

_-_Edmund Burke.

The sand was still present in the air, an evil presence, getting into his nose and his eyes, still making it clear that God-Forsaken place, namely the Arab Region of Iraq, was not meant to hold human life. The sun's first rays were slithering upon the sand, as the darkness above seemed to endure the light's raid. For a man of his profession, such a natural event as sunrise was not one that brought joy; darkness was always friendlier than lights; the light killed, called the attention, and ironically, blinded his eyes, so used to the dark. The night, on the other hand, protected, with it's cold, dark arms, from the danger. Because stealth was better than brute force. _Sometimes_.

However, he decided it wasn't so bad; he was no longer a creature of the night, as his former comrades would have said. No, they weren't his comrades anymore. The West believed that Light was synonym of good, in such a pacifist, simplistic view of the world. The problem with Europe and America –he decided- was that they took their democracy (Their cars, their clothes, their freedom of speech) for granted. How could a few college students from Seattle even understand how it was living under a dictatorship? _Don't invade Iraq, _they said. Nonsense! Freedom was made for everybody. And that was what he delivered. _Sometimes._

The United States Special Operations Forces, (Special Forces, for short) was his former employer. A Green Beret, an unofficial warfare specialist, a man who had seen death to the face and spitted at it just too many times, he called himself. All that was done for his country. The US, just like the rest of the West had weakened. He should have noticed when the War started; if the people don't want the war, then just don't do it. _Never._

But it was all done, now. Those poor men –civilians- had grown among Left-Wing propaganda and Hippie trash, believing that the Military was evil. _Too many fucking "The Hulk" comic books_, he spat. Americans had the disgusting habit of forgetting the people who served them. Did they seriously believe they would have the right to object the war if they had been Iraqis? _Stupid X-Generation fuckers. _He believed. No. The military had been taking all their blows, so that an asshole with a "_Vote Green_" cap could desecrate their memories. _Always._

But the West would learn from their enemies. What he noticed was that Iraqis had an immense respect for their military. Possibly because they were the ones raping and gutting them, and possibly zapping their gonads with Cattle Prods. He had been a fool. He used to believe he had to take the insults from the bloody hippies, because it was thanks to him that those fuckers could insult him in the first place. No, there was another possibility. _Maybe._

And that possibility came from the least imaginable place: the East. In the East, despite their Left-Wing leaning, they did have some respect to the military and the government did matter. Then, he noticed it; The American Left-Wing was not that Left Wing at all, was it? And slowly, he noticed he was a believer himself. The Government controlling everything. No liberties, and thus, respect. Communism, all of a sudden, started making sense. _Always._

And right there, in the streets of Baghdad, he noticed he was fighting for the enemy of soldiers. The West. For some reason, during the Vietnam War, the Hippies called Soldiers like him "Baby Killers" and "Mass Murderers", while the Vietnamese called their Guerrillas "Warriors." And he was not a Baby Killer. He was a warrior. _Always._

Marx said the government should control supplies... Turning the civilian population in a sort of militarized state. No more injustice. No more lack of discipline. What was the US military thinking? Soldiers lived under Communism, and said they were defending The American Way. He would never again defend that bunch of lies. _Never._

And that's why he stayed. While Iraq was still a battlefield, he went AWOL. Those dirty streets were the new battlefields. The Socialist Revolution would happen. He knew it. And he would win the war. _He had to._

---

As much as he liked to deny it, he was becoming a dinosaur. He stared gracelessly at his office wall; ridden with military awards, among them, a Purple Heart and even the goddamn Medal Of Honor, awarded by Congress. He used to look at that wall, painted brown in his office, and think of himself as a hero. But he wasn't. He was just a man who did his job. And damn well. He even had a diploma, screaming it. The one he was proudest of them all, despite the Purple Heart he got during Operation: Just Cause, (after a 7.62 x 39mm Kalashnikov round had a close encounter with his left thigh) was the one almost all the men of his kind had, and the one that made him smile the most, and remember the good old times.

In short, it read in a bold, black letter, "Lt. 2nd Roy Campbell has successfully graduated from the United States Marines Corps officer school." It made him smile, knowing that despite of everything, he was still a Marine. Of course, he had retired from the said institution a long time ago. However, had had been serving as an advisor for the Army; namely the Special Forces, Delta Force, and a unit that was never supposed to have existed.

That unit was unofficial. The only few written records rested in some dark warehouse in the depths of the Pentagon, and of course, in his office. The new one had been installed in Fort Meade, a shared home with the National Security Agency. Roy believed he was becoming a spy, instead of a better soldier. Because spies had no honor, did they? Campbell then sat down behind his boring wooden desk. The windows were-half closed, and a small ray of light entered, barely illuminating the otherwise grave-looking office.

_FOXHOUND, _the report on his desk read. FOXHOUND was America's dirtiest of all dirty secrets; and illegally formed Special Forces unit, specifically designed to screw over international treaties, and deal with low-intensity conflicts (Or rather, the Low-Intensity core of a Large-intensity conflict), handling assassinations, sabotage, VIP rescue. Campbell thanked god the average civilian didn't even know FOXHOUND existed and that most Military men thought they were a legend. If the people knew about them, the US Government's credibility would be killed off.

That was the official word. Unofficially, they were a bunch of multi-national weirdoes teamed up to kill, crush and destroy the USA's opposition. But then again, their loyalty was nothing to be proud of; FOXHOUND had a long history of betrayal, ranging from the Unit's Former Commander (The man without a name, World-Wide known as the Greatest Soldier of the XX Century, or just by his Codename, Big Boss) to a full unit rebellion, AKA the Shadow Moses Fiasco.

That was probably the greatest terrorist threat in history. Of course, Al Qaeda were indeed worthy opponents, but these fuckers had crossed the line; they held the US and Russian Governments at ransom; all thanks to Metal Gear. He had his own things to say about that machine. Anyway, they were either dead or AWOL. FOXHOUND was over.

Or so he thought until that very morning, when a Government officer; (A former Marine, just like Roy) recruited him for a more than risky task: rebuilding FOXHOUND from scratch. Well, not FOXHOUND itself, but rather create an acceptable, and certainly more politically correct successor.

The task was simple: Recreate FOXHOUND finding DNA-matching individuals (In order to follow the Soldier Gene theory, which said that shit such as accuracy, self-control and general combat skill were written in the DNA) and then to retrain those people to maximize the potential of those genes. Oh, how easy. Campbell didn't think that could work. For starters, how on Earth were they going to find people with matching Soldier Genes to those of Fox-Hound? Would they examine every fucking person in this Planet till they found all six of them?

The idea came from one of the President's consultants; to search for blood relatives of the terrorists, tell them fairy tales about what happened at Shadow Moses and then they'd have a new unit, which would be called "ECLIPSE". The idea wasn't bad, but it was certainly disgusting; despite how much Campbell was disgusted by terrorists, it wouldn't be pretty to hunt down their relatives and then force them into a Military unit.

But orders were orders. Campbell was now enjoying the downright disgusting task of reading the FOXHOUND member's files and look for possible relatives in the US Military networks. The chances of that happening were none, but he at least had to try, right?

He had just finished one, and opened the following file. The retired Colonel was certainly having no fun, as he opened the file and started a quick reading.

"Codename: Sniper Wolf, real name: Layla Slervansk" Roy read aloud. Now that was no joke; the firefight between that woman and the man who could make the impossible possible (Solid Snake) had been outdoors, and Campbell had the most morbid idea of watching it through Satellite imagery. A sniper fight, and one of the worst kind.

All the stuff on the file, he already knew. Campbell clicked his tongue as quickly as he read the Nationality remark: Iraqi. Now, he knew that she had been a Kurd, a very different ethnicity than the Southern Arabs. Anyway, the file was just wrong, since in the late 2005, eight months after Shadow Moses, Kurdistan split itself from Iraq and even had a short war with Turkey. Tough sons of bitches.

Anyway, she had been a Halabja massacre survivor, and those people really didn't deserve to die. But then again, she had been brainwashed by the Iraqis, so she was psychologically dead. He had taken the confession from Snake; she got into the revolt to _die. _Honorable suicide, perhaps?

Any Gulf War veteran with a spine will agree that George Bush Senior's decision to pull back, leaving their Kurdish allies to take the wrath of the Iraqi army was not stupid, but certainly cruel; those people had been Saddam Hussein's target, kind of like Hitler's Jews and Mao's Intellectuals. Anyway, he felt really bad having to live with the fact that they had abandoned them.

Leaving the issue, he went over to his computer, and opened up a Searcher; that little buddy would search for anything within the US' Network, including Soldiers, personnel, even Enemy Army's files. If the FOXHOUND sniper had any relative who lived through the Halabja Massacre and got into any army on this planet, he'd know, although it seemed kind of unlikely. He had already tried with Psycho Mantis and Decoy Octopus, with nothing achieved.

He put the surname and hit the enter key swiftly, sending the right combination of 1's and 0's, and getting the Searcher going. He wasn't expecting any results; and that old computer was being noisy. Campbell smiled as he thought how hard the computer was trying to find _someone, _to no avail. To Campbell's surprise, he was wrong.

The Searcher stopped. Only one name found. At the top of the list, alone, a fully matching individual was written, and his file was open to Retired Colonel Roy Campbell's desires. But he'd get the job done.

---

London, United Kingdom, 1430 hours. (Local time)

According to the last UN counting, there were around 20 million Kurds living on this planet, most of them, split among four countries; Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey. Despite how different these countries seemed to be, it seemed that all governments mistreated Kurds. Even Turkey, usually referred to as the evidence that a Muslim society could spawn a democracy, had its own Oppressive program against its Kurdish population.

Why was that? Racial hatred, perhaps. Islamic peoples are divided into three main ethnical groups: Arabs, Turks, and Indo-Europeans. Iraq and Syria were Arab countries. Turkey was obviously the land of the Turks. Kurds and Persians both belong to the third family: The Indo-Europeans. However, Persians (Modern-Day Iranians) were ethnically mixed with Arabs, whereas the Kurds were originally Aryans, explaining blue eyes and blond hair to the shocked Out-Landers.

Or could it be fear? The Zagros Mountains, the modern-day Kurdistan, even though has been conquered by many foreigners, never has anyone ever fully enslaved Kurds. Why? Firstly, their homes are high up the mountains, unreachable by a large strike force. Secondly, Kurds were said to be excellent fighters.

But that last option didn't make much sense. Anyway, that all changed after 2003, with the ending of the Iraq War. Saddam Hussein's government was eliminated by their US allies, so Kurdistan, a semi-autonomous region that had gained some sort of freedom after NATO set up a No-Fly zone, expanded itself and finally, departed itself from their former masters, the now weakened Iraqi Arabs. So, the two Kurdish factions, the pro-Federal KDP (Kurdish Democratic Party) and the Right-Wing PUK (Patriotic Union of Kurdistan) merged and created the new state.

Anyway, Kurdistan didn't take long in becoming a Sovereign state; they even had a quite noisy quarrel with Turkey, who threatened to crush the Zagros Mountains with their Armored Divisions. However, Washington stepped forward, and Ankara desisted from the threat.

Thanks to that new power, new Embassies were created. The US provisional Embassy was built in Nashville, Tennessee, because most Kurdish Refugees who fled to America lived there. Simultaneously, the one in Britain was made in London.

The Ambassador's name was Mohammed Al-Rashid, a member of the PUK. He was pro-American a supporter of the War in Iraq. He was well tanned, and had a winner smile. He walked confidently, covered by London's cloudy, old sky, a gray ceiling that never crumbled. His hair, always short, was now fading, turning white quickly. He didn't mind.

He felt safe, his two bodyguards, Ibrahim and Elijah, followed him from a distance. He never left home without them. They were both from the Peshmerga Special Forces (The Peshmerga being the Kurdish Guerilla, who, after US Special Forces support. Become a full-fledged army), used to handling weapons. They probably missed their AK's from when they fought for liberty, Mohammed thought, but now that Kurds had finally obtained their long-wished freedom, what would be of those soldiers?

But they were indeed armed. Ibrahim, a muscular Peshmerga rifleman, walked peacefully, knowing that he had a German-made Heckler & Koch MP5K under his jacket. He was Kurdish from Persian origin, so he quite resembled a regular Arab. He was wearing, as well as his partner, a formal suit and usual bodyguard sunglasses.

His partner, Elijah, was an Aryan Kurd. His blond hair was carefully combed (they were bodyguards, but they were part of the diplomatic service anyway). He was carrying, in his holster, an Austrian-Made Glock C-18; a fully automatic 9 x 19mm NATO Handgun, made out of ultra-lightweight polymers, making it the ultimate VIP defense weapon.

Both Bodyguards followed Mohammed closely as they approached the Kurdish Embassy's front door; there was always the possibility of a crazed Turkish madman, more than willing to detonate himself in order to keep the Rebels from power. But that was unlikely.

Mohammed walked into the Embassy as a King entered his palace; he looked around, seeing the typical Cultural-Lacking Embassy entryway. They had to be neutral. Soon, they would model it in a way that was representative of Kurds. The two bodyguards kept their cool as they walked in.

One of the local Embassy workers waved at the Ambassador.

"_Beg_..." He called, quickly. "_Balyoz!_" the aid called again. "There's a US military man in the phone, he needs to have a word with you."

Mohammed stirred in shock, as he turned to Ibrahim for help. The bodyguard couldn't do more than shake his head. The Diplomatic head quickly ran to the Telephone and took the call.

"Hello?" The Ambassador said, hiding his heavy breathing. He wasn't in that perfect physical shape, to be fair. "Mhmm..." Mohammed said, as he heard the man on the other line, and turned to the two expectant escorts.

The Diplomat took the phone away from his head and quickly talked to his bodyguard. "Elijah," he sneered, his heart drumming. "Take this call."

"_Beg_...?" The Bodyguard's voice was croaky. Maybe he couldn't face the truth.

"It's for you." The Ambassador interjected. The bodyguard took the speaker and started the conversation.

"Hello? Who is this?" Elijah had excellent English,

"Whom am I speaking with?" An American accented voice demanded. He was definitely aged and seemed military.

"Elijah Mahmoud Slervansk, Kurdistan's Department of Negotiation and Cooperation speaking."

"I'm pleased to meet you." The American said, formally. "I am Retired Colonel Roy Campbell, United States, from the Department of Defense." The Retired Colonel stopped, and then began again. "Ask to speak in private."

The Bodyguard wasn't particularly thrilled with having a private conversation with a man from the USDOD, but he decided to play along. He looked fixedly at the Ambassador. "Sir, may I speak in Private?"

"_Ere..._" he said. "Go to my office." He said, nodding with his head. He knew that something odd was up, but didn't interfere.

The bodyguard hung up and quickly ran upstairs. His partner and the Ambassador watched him ascend frenetically, wondering. What the heck did that Bodyguard have to do with the DOD? The Embassy wasn't the largest ever, but it was certainly nice. There weren't plenty of visits, but the guys that came once then started coming usually. Kurds were still people in trouble.

Elijah Slervansk was the newest addition to the security detail. His blue eyes were always energetic, always alert. He was tall and a very good shooter. Himself, he was a former Captain in the Peshmerga's Special Forces, unbeatable with the Glock 18c. He was never thrilled about speaking about himself. The usual low-profile bodyguard type. He was also an Iraq war veteran, and a member of the PUK, along with the Ambassador.

He then quickly ran among diplomatic aides and into the Ambassador's office. It was almost empty, filled with semi-open drawers and pictures. He then reached for the black phone, re-taking the call.

"Hello?" He asked, not hiding his accelerated heartbeat rate.

"Mr. Slervansk, I've called to see if I could arrange a meeting with you." The American coldly said, being diplomatic and militaristic simultaneously.

"Quit the crap. If you are going to recruit me for the CIA, then take note of this. Screw you."

"Eli..." the man on the other side said, calmingly. "I just called to tell you something." Campbell paused, and then chose the right words. "Your sister, Layla. She has passed away. I am sorry."

Elijah then glanced at the door. He wasn't being watched. This was all too scary.

"Sorry, sir, be she was dead beforehand." He said, coldly. His accent wasn't noticeable; years of dealing with their British Counterparts, perhaps?

"Oh, no, Eli. You are wrong."

"Excuse me, sir, but never has anyone taken by the Iraqi army has survived. Not ever."

"I can't tell you details; not this way, but she was killed during an act of terrorism." Campbell informed, like a Catholic Priest tries to get the message through laic minds.

"In Iraq?"

"No. It all happened within United States of America's territory. In the state of Alaska."

Elijah wasn't buying into this, but his voice was still doubtful. He was sprinting through an emotional minefield. "Why didn't it appear in the News?"

"Again, I can't tell. But..." Campbell again dumbly paused. "I'm sorry that you have to hear this, but she was one of the terrorists."

"What?" Elijah didn't sound pissed. He wasn't even sad. He was just shocked.

Campbell decided to expand a bit. He'd break a couple of DOD regulations, but then again, who cared? "She was part of OUR military. She came in as a refugee... But then she took part in a rebellion. Only later we found out that she sympathized with an Islamic Terrorist Group you should know about: Ansar Al-Islam. "

The name flashed through Slervansk's brain. Ansar Al-Islam. A Mainly Kurdish Pro-Al Qaeda terrorist group, operating in Northern Iraq and Western Iran. He had himself taken on some of its members during the Iraq war. Could she have been recruited by Ansar, then taken to the US, joined the military so that they could attack the US Imperialistic Monster from the inside? The mere possibility twisted Elijah's digestive system. "_Beimkan_!" he snapped. "_Impossible!_"

"Elijah, I know this is hard to accept, but it IS the truth."

"Campbell..." Elijah's lips froze. "Why? Why did she join them? What did you do?"

"Elijah, she said it herself." Roy's tone showed his own confidence. "She lost her will to live. She claimed, after being wounded, that she was only there because she wanted to die."

"Like a Martyr?"

"No. As in someone who had lost everything."

"When do you want to meet me?" Elijah asked a weird, psychotic calmness in his voice.

"A month from now, in London. Trafalgar Square."

"I can do whatever I want from that day to now, correct?"

"Yes..." Campbell doubted.

"So, tell me, who do you think recruited Layla?"

"I'm sorry, I just said too much."

"Tell me." Elijah repeated. The calmness was still there. He was a man who had everything perfectly clear; he understood what he had to do.

"Urgh..." Campbell then paused. And he decided to keep talking. "The investigation carried out on her unit revealed that she had been having contact with a certain individual in Iraq. The name's Syed Hisdan. Ever heard the name before?"

"Not really. But if he's a member of Ansar, I'll find him."

"What are you talking about?"

"Colonel Campbell, I accept your offer, whatever it is. All is demand a safe flight to Iraq and a month to do what I need to."

Campbell thought for a second. That man was clearly planning revenge. But he then thought. Syed was an enemy of the US. So all he did was smile, and added. "Absolutely. There's a 747 in Heathrow, taking off tonight. It will go to the Former Saddam Hussein international airport. From there, off, you'll be on your own."

Elijah knew his life was soon to be over. He wasn't angry. He wasn't mourning. His soul, if there was such thing left, had been broken; he had lost a hope he never had. He didn't quite get it; Americans were the only ones who had helped the Kurds; it was thanks to them and Britain that the UN actually recognized Kurdistan as a state. _The only ones._

He then sat down on the Ambassador's chair. The desk was perfectly clean, empty. Nothing would change in the Political side due to his tragedy. But was it even one? Elijah wasn't crying. Well, not yet. He then sank his head between his hands.

She was dead. And there was nothing he could do about that.

And the worst thing was that he had failed; it was her failure. He was the older sibling, the one meant to be an example. The firstborn's breathing became heavier. What did he do wrong? He knew. He wouldn't lie to himself. He was a coward; they let them be split, he had been afraid. And now she was dead.

She had been taken by the Iraqis, brainwashed, told to hate her people and their allies, then kill them, to then sympathize with the most wretched bunch of scum in the Middle East. Ansar Al-Islam. And Syed Hisdan.

His eyes reddened. Syed Hisdan. Elijah now desired he could put the blame on him, but he couldn't. He was his Sister's indirect killer. The question was; was he or was he Syed? Syed was certainly scum, and was closer to her point of death, but Elijah was the man who tackled the problem by its roots. And it was his fault: if he had had the balls to get into the Iraqi's way, to not let her take her...

Things could have been different.

But there were no solutions. That mistake, that moment of cowardice... He would never fix it. And he hated himself for it. Elijah then made it all clear to his mind. It was either living on, and or killing himself for his failure. No. He had to live on. He wouldn't give up. He still had a lot to live for. He wouldn't fall in the same pit.

Syed, on the other hand... He hated himself in that moment, but it did make sense. He couldn't blame the Counterterrorist soldier who killed her physically, but he may as well go after the one that had taken her choice to live. He would go after Syed.

And hell would break lose.

---

US Army base in Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA. 2235 hours. (Local time)

Sergeant Murray Howler was a man of his word. About to be 40, he stared at his fellow soldiers of the 7th Light Infantry Division (Former, since he and his team were now joining the 10th Special Forces Group) in that cold barrack in Fort Carson, in the mountains of Colorado Springs. It seemed as though miniature snow particles were still present in the air, gripping his nose and arms.

Cold is particularly harsh with those not yet accustomed. His suit, camouflaged for the sands of the place he would soon be (50 Sand Brown, 20 Light Brown, 10 White, 5 Black and 15 Miscellaneous, according to the manual), wasn't designed to withstand mountain cold. He kept that suit in his backpack, but wouldn't need it until he was on the ground.

He then reviewed his mission; he was a member of the Army's 10th Special Forces team, with the current function of surveying and watching the border between Kurdistan and the Islamic Republic of Iraq (The two parts in which Iraq had been split). His unit would take intelligence from the Iraqi 32nd Armored Division, currently posed to perform a pre-emptive strike upon Sulaymaniya, the capital of the Kurdish Confederation.

Relations between the two former Iraqi nations had been going south since their separation, when Kurdistan claimed Kirkuk for it's own; even though it's a predominantly Kurdish city, the Shiite leadership suspected the PUK and KDP wanted it due to its enormous oil reserves.

Sgt. Howler didn't much care if the Kurds wanted it for oil or morale reasons. Kurdistan was an ally of the US, and whoever messed with US's allies, messed with the United States of America. Afghanistan and the former Ba'athist Iraq had learnt the lesson. It wasn't like the Shias had never crossed paths with the US military before; but back then they were one of those Guerillas the US had so much trouble dealing with. Now, they were an army.

The kind the USA destroys without effort.

Howler wasn't particularly thrilled at this: war, with anyone, it was never easy, and blood, for some reason, always ended in his country's hands. Was it their fault? He was too old for those deep questions. His green eyes wouldn't shed a tear for those victims anymore.

He was an honorable soldier, and a Special Forces operative. He couldn't allow himself such luxury. Returning to the task at hand, he would meet a team of British SAS operatives in the way there. The eldest and probably best Special Forces group would be there for them, right? But no one at Colorado Springs was worried about the mission. Not with those guys around.

"Hey, Sarge, any last minute order?" Corporal Di'noffrio, a young Italian-American, asked. His wild eyes unintentionally stared, and there was still a sign of youth in his messy 5 O' clock shadow. His Colt M4 SOPMOD (Special Operations Modifiable) was hanging from his shoulder.

"Yeah, Corporal. The infiltration method's been changed. We're going in a couple of CH-47 Chinook's, carrying a team of six and a Humvee each. I think the Brits will join us in the field."

"Do you think those Humvee's will pack TOW's?" He asked, enthusiastic as always.

"One, for sure. The other one will be packing an M2 .50 Cal machinegun. I feel more comfortable in that one." The Sergeant sneered. Speed before power.

"Anyway, will be laser-painting any targets?"

"We are not at war, Corporal. We are just seeing if our allies are in trouble." He said, while staring at the night. "But if we are caught, then the Government will deny our presence. We won't be POWs. As far as I'm concerned, War Missions are easier."

"I'd have to agree on that, sir." He said, nodding his head. "Sarge, were you in the conflict with the Shias? Back in '04?"

"Yup. I helped a squad of Kurdish Peshmergas, trying to get our hands on Tikrit. Boy, they were some shots. Anyway, the world is a different place now. Especially in there."

"Why, sir? Aren't they still our allies?"

"It's not the same thing. Back then we were saving an oppressed people. Now, they are a sovereign state. The EU already wants our ass in a silver plate after we stood up for Kurdistan when Ankara started bitchin'. People like Oppressed Ethnicities, Corporal. But they don't like it when we give up on Europe. So far, only Sweden, Norway, Russia and Greece support Kurdistan. "

"Do you think we should stick to NATO? Help Turkey? Screw Kurdistan?"

"I don't know, Corporal." He said, giving up on his ideological self. "You've gone way ahead of me. I'll do what I'm told. And that's it."

"Oh..."

"Here they come..."

The large, two-rotor helicopter showed up in the clear sky, a spot light beneath revealing its existence and blinding the squad of commandos. That same chopper would be sent in a large C-130 Globemaster transport plain to the USAF base of Incirlik, from where it would take off and take them to the field.

In that same base, NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) operated. An organization within USAF, their duty is to watch the skies of USA and Canada, watching for potential airborne threats, utilizing the newest technologies available.

They were probably running things good, he thought. Operation: Anaconda Sight was underway.

---

Elijah had left the Embassy noisily. Ambassador Mohammed Al-Rashid spotted him leaving the place in such a dark way –traditionally, Elijah walked silently but keeping his head up high. Whatever that American had told him; it must have been a bomb. He gladly gave the former officer the day off. He wouldn't be leaving anyway.

But what was the matter with him? Elijah didn't have any family that he knew of. Because only a man whose family's been attacked would look like that; he knew; he was a father of three, two boys and a baby girl. His life was so successful here in London; and something very screwed up happened to his bodyguard. He'd figure it out soon.

---

Heathrow International Airport, United Kingdom. Five hours later.

He didn't pack much; it wasn't as if he was going to a long vacation. All he needed were clothes, personal hygiene elements and a few of his personal stuff: a digital watch, and a cell phone. That was all he would need.

He had swiftly gone through Customs. Even though customs agents were usually quite obsessive with Muslim immigrants, the ones getting away didn't make them lose any sleep. After all, he wasn't carrying any metallic objects. He wouldn't take a gun.

He was now boarding British Airways flight 671 to the Al Sadr international airport. (The airfield was called in honor to a very important Shiite cleric, who was now the main Theocrat in the Islamic Republic of Iraq). That particular airfield used to be called "Saddam Hussein International Airport", but ever since the embargo placed in 1991, Iraq was getting very little visits.

It all changed when the 1st Marine Corps Expeditionary Force (The last Official US unit in leaving Iraq) departed and the Islamic Republic of Iraq (IRI) was created, Soon after that, it became the single most visited place by Muslims since Mecca. It had the largest Mosques, and it was certainly a boiling point for anti-Western terrorists.

Terrorist camps were created. Groups ranging from Islamic Fundamentalists like Hizbollah and Ansar Al-Islam to Marxist Fanatics like the PLIA (the People's Liberation International Army) and Kurdistan's own PKK (Kurdistan's Workers Party) established their bases in the Iraqi desert.

However, the USA had no chance attacking it; after the Democrat Party (and James Johnson) took office, the UN and the USA _sort _of patched up, and there was an important budget reduction in the DOD. America couldn't afford to get into another war, especially with a country that was now the UN's favorite; The New Yorker institution was trying to protect the Islamic Republic of Iraq from the US's imperialistic power; according to their own words. They had to be fair.

However, James Johnson had enough. He might have been a Democrat, but the UN had gone too far. The United States of America slowly started leaving their position in the United Nation's Security Counsel. They just plain old started "leaving" the world. Isolationism started rising among Right-Wing parties.

It was said that the US's Empire started falling that day. They only kept heavy diplomatic relations with Russia, the UK, and up to a point Germany and Italy in Europe, and Kurdistan, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Japan and Taiwan in Asia. Well-chosen allies, the Republicans might add.

Elijah walked up the stair towards the British Airways 671 flight, a large 747 painted white, a sober vehicle but somewhat pleasing to the eyes. Not since he had left the Peshmergas, he had flown in a civilian aircraft. And he kind of liked it. The people around him were mostly Muslims, but there were some Englishmen walking around; blue eyes were noticeable among dark colors. He got in.

The inside matched; also white, and with no decoration whatsoever, small claustrophobic windows and long passageways greeted and were relaxing; cute airplanes didn't fall, did they? An airhostess, probably British, then spoke at him; her greenish eyes were fully alert; the residual memory of 911 was still among the US's allies.

"May I have your ticket, please?" Elijah handed out the ticket, which he had got that very afternoon. His look was bored; and he was playing it as business.

"Sure, Ma'am." He replied, being diplomatic as always. She probably must have confused him with a German passenger, for she spoke way too quickly for the usual Arab passenger.

"Thank you, Sir." She said, very polite as always. "Seat 17-b".

He then walked along, towards his given sit. There was a constant whisper: not the usual laughter and loud talk that followed most commercial flights. No western family would be foolish enough to take their children to the world's sinkhole, the former bodyguard grinned. Most of them were businessmen; the few of them who had not realized the Shiite leadership didn't like capitalists either.

He then sat down. The seat was comfortable, blue, and had nothing in particular. He then looked at the seat 17-a. An overweight, rough-complexioned man was getting ready to sleep. It was the smart thing to do if you were afraid of heights, but it was also true that it was hard to sleep being 12,000 meters away from the ground.

He then decided he would do so as well. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep in Iraq; the hunt would keep him too busy.

---

The Retired Colonel Roy Campbell was admittedly already senior of age, but far away from being psychologically old. He still did exercise, and tried to keep himself fit. He ran five miles a day (they used to be ten), running around Fort Meade, (Being so high-ranked, no one would stop him) Jogging kept him alive.

That day was no exception. Knowing he might have sentenced Syed Hisdan to a horrible death didn't exactly traumatize him; bastards like that weren't worth his worry. Being a former FOX-HOUND commander, he understood that human life wasn't all that important. He had himself led assassination attempts where most people didn't even know America had interests in.

The sky was gray, thin clouds covered the entire state of Maryland. The atmospheric pressure had to be high, but Roy somehow didn't feel like it was going to rain. He based himself in that prediction; his jogging suit wasn't exactly waterproof.

So all he did was his morning run, not disturbed at all. But after the second mile, that became un-truthful. ECLIPSE; that unit they were creating, was still in his head; what if they revolted? What would happen? He secretly hoped the project would be scrapped.

His breathing and his footsteps were loud. However, he felt it; there was somebody else behind him; as he turned, gasping for breath, he stared into the other man. A man in his 30's, with brownish hair and youngster look, kept going at the same speed as the retired colonel.

"Good day for some exercise, eh, Campbell?" He said. His voice wasn't affected by the physical effort, but he wasn't a singer either. He had a very high pitch. A New Yorker, perhaps?

"Do I know you?" Campbell asked, militarily.

"Oh! Sorry. William Sharp, but everyone calls me Bill. NSA." He said, catching up, aligning himself with Roy.

"NSA?" He asked, half-interested. "How do you know me?"

"I'm in this project with you, Roy."

"You mean..."

"ECLIPSE." He said, factually.

"So, you boys are into FOXHOUND's reconstruction, eh?" He asked, smiling, just like when somebody was caught.

"Yes. And so are you, I hear."

"What's all this about?" Campbell reduced his rhythm. "I know you people don't exactly just stalk veterans like me just for catching up."

"You see, Roy, we are having lots of trouble looking for these relatives." Sharp said, almost stopping. "A couple of days ago, our new CRAY-3 computer caught a radio transmission from a Jail in Moscow. It said that a certain woman named Nadia Slonoskvo, age 23, had been released from Prison."

"So?"

"Well, turns out she's the niece of a guy named Yuri Slonoskvo. Ring any bells?"

"FOXHOUND member Psycho Mantis."

"Exactly. We did a little of research; there was no charges on her, no trial, nothing. She was just there. The point is that after I talked to some sources of mine, and the jail she was in... It used to be owned by the Committee of State Security."

"KGB? What the hell?"

"Roy, you should know that Mantis himself was a psychic spy for the USSR. What if the boys at the Committee guessed she would have those skills as well?" He asked, showing once again his obsession of his job. Campbell shrugged, and didn't answer. "It was a rhetorical question."

"But the Soviet Union's been long dead. What was she doing still in jail?"

"The Russians are still kind of embarrassed by the repression of the former regime. Do you seriously believe they'll just let all their political prisoners go as quickly as that, especially one of the critical importance as Slonoskvo?"

"True." Roy admitted. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because the NSA has found one relative. Now we want DOD to return us the favor."

"And you are asking this because?"

"C'mon, Roy. We are watching how your investigation is going. And we know that you personally phone called a member from the security staff at the Kurdistan's embassy in London."

"Listen, _Bill. _We are in on this together. The Department of Defense and the National Security Agency are doing this together. We let you do stuff your way. Now, let us do it our way."

"It's not good enough. You let Slervansk take off to Iraq so he can assassinate a member of a terrorist organization. That's not exactly fair play."

"You are going to lecture _me _on fair play?" Roy snapped, showing his still white teeth.

"Why not? We pinpointed Slonoskvo silently, cleanly, and without anyone noticing. You, on the other hand, are using your draftee to help your agenda." William rubbed salt on him.

"He chose to go to Iraq by his own free will."

"And you just let him go? Do you have any idea what happens if he dies?"

Campbell groaned in response. Sharp didn't respond; could it be that Campbell used Slervansk as a Kamikaze, to then drop him, letting him die, so that ECLIPSE could never be fully formed? If so, the Roy Campbell from Shadow Moses was dead.

---

Somewhere near Tikrit, northern Iraq, three years before.

"How long will it take?" The American asked, after that long, bitter wait. The desert nights were surprisingly cold; the infinite darkness of the sky sheltered them, as the lay semi-hidden in the sand, which had taken an unusual blue color. His voice sounded bored, but serious.

"They'll be through..." The rebel commander sneered, watching the scene through Russian-made binoculars. His accent was noticeable, as were his blue eyes in the dark. "Be patient."

"As you wish." The Green Beret said, controlling his mind and the situation.

"Captain, here they come."

They both turned their heads left; and took a glance at the road. That poorly paved way took the weight of three Trumpeter Soviet ZIL 6x6 military trucks. Iraqis were probably transporting ammunitions from the retreating northern front; fighting the well-armed American paratroopers, combined with the well-motivated Kurdish Peshmergas was no easy task.

The American's name was Captain Michael Gray; from the US Special Forces, he was a man in his very early 30's, who had gone through the toughest of trainings, and had been dropped from an airplane, falling at the speed of sound to avoid Radar detection, and then landed behind enemy lines. And it didn't bother him. Just as his partner, his eyes were blue (Only Michael's were grayish blue) and his hair was militarily cut.

He then aimed at the front ZIL truck with his weapon: a Colt M16A2, equipped with a 40mm M203 grenade launcher, and using Armor Piercing 5.56 x 45mm NATO ammunitions. Even though they were standard issue in the US Military, it seemed awfully high-tech in comparison to his squad-mates equipment.

The other one was a Kurd, a marksman from the Peshmerga's Special Forces. His red beret, which covered his spiky blue hair, proved it. Both of them were wearing desert camouflage uniforms, which blended perfectly with the environment. So were the Peshmerga's behind them, following the marksman's orders.

That soldier in particular was armed with a Russian-made SVD Dragunov Sniper Rifle, the sniper version of the AK-47, using a longer barrel, a smaller magazine, plastic grips and a 7x scope. So was his spotter; a –oddly- female Peshmerga, the Dragunov barrel of whom had some sort of detail drawn to it; hardly visible at night.

The entire 6-man group suddenly busted out of cover, raising the dust particles covering them, surprising the driver. Gray was the first one taking the shot; he raised his Colt assault rifle, set in a three-round-burst configuration, and fired once; the metallic sound of FMJ (Full Metal Jacketed) rounds leaving the chamber was similar to that of a metallic drum, the three rounds went right through the window, and were lodged into the companion's brain.

The sound of the window breaking, in a long breaking sound, was the go word for all the Iraqi soldiers within the ZIL truck to realize what was going on; as soon as their brains analyzed the noise and the fact that the truck had suddenly stopped. They realized they were in big trouble.

The military vehicles behind stopped as well, avoiding a crash. But they knew it was an ambush, the military manual screamed to get everyone out, but no one wanted to get exposed, and only one ZIL carried troops; the other two carried mostly artillery shells and assault rifle ammunitions; the ones the "Pesh" wanted to get their hands on.

Gray was surprised at the Kurds' reaction; instead of spraying and praying like usual Muslim guerillas, they suddenly started moving forward, half-ducked, while firing individual shots; the four soldiers with AK's chose firing in semiautomatic manner; the shots were louder than that of the M16, but Gray didn't mind. Even if they were firing in motion, they still pulled of firing through the sheet covering the ZIL cargo bay.

The Green Beret decided to join them; he then started advancing while taking cover, firing again in 3-Round-Burst mode. He wasn't used to fire at something without knowing if they were going to hit something or not, but hey, the "Pesh" had one inspiring fighting spirit.

The Iraqis started reacting. As long bursts of inaccurate fire were heard, one of the officers jumped out of the back of the first truck, and while clutching a wound on his arm, fired two shots from his firearm; a nine millimeters, judging for the noise. That was until the Kurdish commander had the decency of firing a shot with his Snaiperskaya Vintovka Dragunova (SVD) and actually dropping him with a single, powerful yet silent, shot through the left lung.

Sucking down a 7.62 x 54mm Rimmed round at a long distance was never a happy experience; leave alone at less than nine meters. The Arab officer took down the shot and fell disgustingly, with a single, untidy hole in his chest, and bending his torso as he fell on the road.

"Go! Go! Go!" Michael shouted. The Kurds seemed to understand it, as they rushed, after the Marksman's shot, As soon as they reached three meters off the road; they crouched quite militarily, and kept the Iraqis hidden within the truck. Gray hated to admit it, but the "Pesh" were skilful motherfuckers.

The Marksman, serious as always, shouted clearly; "Rashid, get over here!" He was, for some reason, speaking in English. Maybe he wanted Gray to be part of his strategy, but it was clear every move made by the Kurds had been previously planned. Mike felt like an observer. The woman from the back came over to the man with the Dragunov. She then crouched next to him.

"_Komandar?_" She asked, in a humble tone, and in her native language.

"Listen, Rashid," he said, speaking softly and slowly, in quite good English. "I want you to take out the truck at the end –We'll take care of the rest. Remember that we need to give our American friends a good impression. _Rastadin?_"

"_Rastadin..."_ She said, seemingly understanding her orders. She then leant over her belly, and assumed a prone position; and that gave Michael a clear look at her face; certainly darker than her Aryan commander, her serious eyes were dark and honest. She then set the SVD's bipod in the sand; the Green Beret noticed the detail; a greenish, serpent-looking dragon was drawn into the barrel of her Sniper Rifle; truly cute.

She then started aiming carefully. Her breathing was loud but slow, she was clearly controlling her shot, concentrating all her awareness in that small spot, and that spot was the last ZIL's lower engine. Those large trucks kept all their fuel within a single storage, below the main engine. The rest of the Kurdish militiamen seemed to group up, as she slowly pressed the trigger.

The 7.62 x 54mm Rimmed round left with a flash of fire, which seemed to have flown from the mouth of the Dragon painted in the barrel. It crossed the cold air, cutting softly, and hit the gas tank right through; The truck suddenly blew up, turning into an orange mushroom, bleeding reddish flames and lighting the night; that was the signal, and the chance for the Kurdish commandos and their American mentor to quickly sneak into the second truck;

The leading marksman hung the Dragunov up his back, and drew his personal sidearm, an American/Italian Beretta 92-F, or, like it was called in the military, M-9. It was clear he had bought it from his new friends, but he certainly did like it. Must have been too expensive for the son of a poor Kurdish goat farmer, but then he remembered Peshmergas were not only the elite of the Kurdish military, but society in general. The rest, however, still held their AK's up high. Gray himself had picked a large MK-23 .45 handgun, common for Special Forces use, and adopted by the Special Operations Command, hence it's name, SOCOM.

One of the Kurds trained his AK on the back of the ZIL; covering it and allowing the Marksman and the American to go in first. The Kurd trained the Italian handgun on the entry, making sure it was clear; there was only cloth covering the wire frame of the truck, so that wouldn't save him from gunfire. At the same time, Gray opened it violently.

An Iraqi ammunitions expert turned to see the incoming soldiers; he was surrounded by ordinance of all types, thousands upon thousands of rounds stacked up in piles, along with missiles and some other weapons. Being careful not to harm the explosives, Gray released a couple of rounds into his chest.

The .45 rounds didn't have any complication going through his rib cage; the high recoil had send a shot just above the heart, but it was enough to drop the ammo expert to the floor, dead. The rest of the team boarded violently. It had been quite a show for just hijacking ammunitions and a truck, but it was a job well done.

As he approached him within the truck, Gray asked the Kurdish lead.

"Okay, commander, I see what you do, and you do it damn well." The American said, raising both arms.

"Hey, no need to be so impersonal." He said, really being off character from the self he had known. "We are combat buddies now, Michael." The Marksman had just admitted something without saying it; he was a different man while in combat.

"I'm glad you think that way, Elijah."

---


	3. Chapter 2: Retaliation

Chapter 2: Retaliation.

"_So long as there are men, there will be wars."_

-Albert Einstein.

"Your weapon is an M4A2 SOPMOD. That stands for "Special Operations Modifiable". It's a fully automatic carbine designed by Colt, chambered with .223 Remington rounds, or 5.56 x 45mm NATO if you will." The quartermaster informed to Murray, whose troops were already gearing up for their mission. "See those rails in the hand guard and over the chamber? You can set virtually anything it those. For instance, you can set an infrared scope or a laser sight in the upper rail."

"Wonderful. I think I'm taking the Infrared Scope." Howler responded dryly. "What about the hand guard?"

"You can set a lot of stuff in there too. You can place from a barrel cooler to a 12-Gauge Entry Shotgun. But most of our boys prefer using M203's. There's this new shit these Belgians –Fabrique Nationale- developed: a non-lethal pneumatical shotgun, the FN-303. It shoots non-lethal plastic projectiles, but they do hurt a fucking lot. You can leave a man KO after one of those." The weapons room was large, and had plenty of tables, where his men were already placing the rounds in the magazines, setting the sights, and testing the NVG's, all in a dark room, whose walls were folded aluminum.

"I think I'm taking the M203, anyway." He said, cautious.

"Flash or HE?"

"HE. What's with you and non-lethal shit? You almost sound like a riot cop." Murray mocked the quartermaster, who responded disappointed.

"You know, we've been under a lot of pressure since Iraq. If you are going to occupy, make sure you don't kill those angry civilians." He said, pissed. The public cared more about foreign civilians than their own troops. _Only in America._

"Guessed so."

He returned to his troops. Di'noffrio was gladly cleaning his M9, but stirred up as soon as Howler called the young Italian American.

"Cleaning your Beretta, eh, mate? You must love those things, knowing where you are from." He said, keeping it cool and friendly with the Corporal.

"Yes, sir. You know me well." The affable rifleman responded. "With all due respect, I guess you used to be like this with your Colt .45, right?"

"I'm not that old, Corporal."

"Then, forgive me sir."

"Nah, I'm flattered you took me for a man with more experience." Howler informed frankly. "You don't by chance have our unit list, right?"

"Only ours, sir. The SAS people are so secretive."

"Don't blame it on the British." He said. "They are in on this with us." He said, knowing the UK was one of the few who stood up for the US back in '03. "Hand me over that list, will ya'?"

"Sure, sir." The Special Forces split itself in groups of twelve, lead by a Captain. Then, there were a Lieutenant who lead a team of six, and a Sergeant who aided the Captain with the other six. That job was Murray's. The rest were a combine of Lance Corporals and 1st class Privates. The list was written in a dried paper.

It read:

1) Captain Vincent Ryan (Commander (Both elements))

2) 1st Lieutenant Roger McTarant (Sub-Commander, Squad leader "Alpha")

3) Sergeant Murray Howler (Squad leader "Bravo")

4) Corporal Nathaniel Clark (Aid Planner, "Alpha")

5) Corporal James Di'noffrio (M2 Gunner, "Bravo")

6) Corporal Craig Hernandez (TOW Gunner, "Alpha")

7) Private 1st Class Mitchell Windsor (Driver "Bravo")

8) Private 1st Class Martin Jenkins (Driver "Alpha")

9) Private 1st Class Michael Lee (Sniper Team "Gunner")

10) Private 1st Class David Hazansky (Sniper Team "Spotter")

11) Private 1st Class Ali Marawki (Translator (Arab))

12) Private 1st Class Kareem Bannad (Translator (Kurdish))

"Sounds like a nice bunch." Murray said, eyeing the list. "What about our gear?"

"It's down here, Sarge". Di'noffrio passed the second list.

-2 HMMVV, 1 TOW equipped, 1 M2 equipped.

-6 M4A2 SOPMOD (variable attachments)

-2 M249 SAW light machine guns.

-1 M95 sniper rifle.

-1 M24 sniper rifle.

-2 MP5 sub-machineguns

-8 M9 Handguns.

-4 MK-23 SOCOM handguns.

-12 "Desert 6-Color" pattern DBDU's with infrared treatment.

-12 NVG's

-24 K-type rations.

"We should be done with that, eh, Sarge?" Di'noffrio asked innocently.

"We should."

---

Somewhere near Halabja, in the Zagros Mountains. Iraq. Twenty-two years before.

The shot rang off, the ear-splitting sounds riddled the mountains, and he shook as the wave hit his ear. The WWI-WWII era Mauser was still a formidable rifle in the hands of a good shooter. His father was one of them.

His name was Mustafa Yosuf Slervansk, sheepherder most of the year, hunter in winter. And he was a Peshmerga when necessary. He rose from the greenish land of the Zagros Mountains, and tried to see what happened to his pray; a mountain wolf. There had to be more pleasant sources of food, but not at that time and in that place.

The large canine had taken the powerful 7.92 x 57mm round to the neck; evidence of the years Mustafa had spent with that thing. The wolf displayed one neat hole near its head, blood was oozing in pretty small numbers; clearly, the bloodstream had stopped around three quarters of a second after the large, heavy bullet left that German K98k's chamber.

He pulled the bolt back quickly, opening the chamber, and he inserted a fresh round into it. Even though he didn't particularly feel anything about the fallen beast, he could see his son –Elijah Mahmoud- was shaking. Or could it be the noise of the rifle? Surprisingly, his even smaller sister, Layla, felt nothing. And she was only five.

It was natural for their people to grow around firearms; most homes had at least one Kalashnikov assault rifle in their basements; Mustafa's didn't. Not because he rejected violence (it was thanks to it that he lived) but because he never had an AK-47. He was a rebel; he had been part of the Rebellion against the new Ba'ath regime in 1966, but his weapon of choice had always been the same: that K98k Mauser, made in 1944 near Nuremberg, Germany.

Anyway, from all his five children, these two were particularly good; well, Layla was just being introduced, and Elijah had been doing this since he was six. And he was learning quickly. But you could see a glow in both pairs of eyes; he could see that glint, that sunray coming from their pupils, every time they watched that wooden butt stock and the closed bolt.

He hung the Mauser around his shoulder in a quick swing; -motion his son would still use at the age of 27, but Mustafa would never know- and started moving towards the fallen prey. The siblings faithfully followed. He was wearing the best stuff he had for the task; old rags of greenish color, in order to camouflage with the vegetation that grew once you got at some height.

His home was further down south; the town had some desert characteristics. They weren't _poor, _but the current government –the baathists, they called themselves, had imposed some really strict laws upon the Kurdish population. Mustafa was really interested in European history, and he knew that the Nazis had started the Holocaust the very same way: Economical control over the Jews. Not strangely, the Baathists were National Socialists as well.

They crept up to the fallen wolf; it wasn't breathing. He noticed too that it was Male, but that didn't much matter. Again, his daughter only stared, unsurprised, but his son Elijah seemed a bit shocked. _He's not by any means a natural killer_, his father grinned.

Then he noticed it, and he was sure his children did too. There had been a cracking noise, maybe the wind did it, but it felt like something else... a footstep. Not human, though. Wolves move in packs, and it would be most odd if you found one alone...

"_Gur?" _Elijah asked, his voice croaky and uncertain.

"_Ere..." _His father responded coldly. All three of them were silent, and crouched; they wouldn't let the beast find them. Why to stop on one animal to take home, when you could get two? Mustafa scouted the area, barely breathing.

And there it was. Unluckily, the wolf's fur didn't camouflage as Mustafa's rag, so the animal was visible. Some 50 meters away, it stood up, crying and barking for the fellow member of its pack. Mustafa then took the rifle firmly with both hands.

"Elijah... Take the rifle, and kill it." He whispered, staring into his son's wide, blue eyes.

He nodded back. _He's a good one, _his father said to himself as he gave the heavy, wooden bolt-action rifle. The boy gripped it tightly. He then focused his head on his target –ability not common among 7-year-olds. He had done this a hundred times with rabbits, but this was a different field.

He set his eye, and aligned the reticule. He then started pressing on the trigger, as he aimed to the second wolf's head. Then, he started pulling the trigger, slowly. The shot boomed across the mountains. And Elijah felt truly liberated for the first time.

---

British Airways Flight 671; flying over the Mediterranean Sea; Present Day.

His eyes snapped open. Elijah Mahmoud Slervansk had these dreams: flashbacks from his childhood. His body slowly reconnected, as he stretched his legs at looked at his watch; there were still some five hours until landing. Most of the passengers were already asleep. Surprisingly, the large man next to him was not.

"Eh, how was your nap?" he asked, quite friendly. He was not European, which was for sure. His dark tone of skin screamed he was from the Middle East.

"It's weird; I hardly ever sleep in planes." _Or anywhere, _the Kurd forgot to add.

"British?" The man in the seat 17-a smiled.

"Nah, I picked up the accent after spending two and a half years in there. I'm quick with that stuff." Elijah felt weird. He wasn't used to being engaged in conversations, but well, he had nothing better to do.

"I'm from Turkey, by the way." He said, while extending his hand. Elijah was done retaking control of his body and did so as well.

"From where in Turkey?"

"I work in Istanbul, but my family lives in Ankara, so I live traveling." The Turk smiled. He was charming. "I guess you are a Kurd, eh?"

"Hole in one." Elijah grinned. "How'd you know?"

"Well, you kind of stalled when I offered my hand, and you really don't look Armenian."

Elijah let off a laugh. Why was he being so friendly? He used to be a loner, then why all of a sudden did he enjoy talking? He was changing.

"Anyway, from where in Kurdistan are you?"

"Iraq." Elijah replied sharply.

"So your flight is not a scaled one." He said.

"What's your business in Iraq?"

"I work in an electric appliances company. We want to start a market in Iraq, before the Shiite clergy takes over."

"What do you mean?"

"Iraq is different that what CBS shows, boy. They want to show a theocratic government, kind of like the one Iran. The south is kind of that way. That's what the Islamic Republic of Iraq is. The Sunni triangle is still in chaos, with the Shiite Militias and Kurdish Peshmerga trying to establish their frontiers."

"So, I won't be killed if I'm caught with my Aerosmith CD's in the airport?" Elijah, for some odd reason, joked. He felt... Relaxed, even though there was still something that called him, he had the delusion of happiness, but that was just a front. He was trying as hard as he could to take his mind of revenge, and maybe that relaxed state was his mind's best defense.

The Turk laughed quite loudly. Most of the sleeping passengers must have resented that.

"Nah, I don't think so. The local police are a joke; as long as you don't bring guns, you won't be arrested. Some even do bring them hidden. They haven't yet bought metal detectors."

"And you are here to fix that, correct?"

"Among other things..." The man said. "So, why are you in Iraq. Visiting your family?"

Elijah's mood was killed instantaneously.

"My family's dead. Killed."

"Oh... I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."

"It's ok; it was a long time ago." Elijah raised his head and changed his own mood.

"So, what are you doing in this sinkhole?"

"Remember my family died a long time ago? Well, let's say I have been stalling the closure for a long time."

---

"Ok, let me get this straight; Roy Campbell revealed secret information to a retired Kurdish militiaman in London, who may or may not be the subject's relative, and then allowed him to take off to the Sunni Triangle, so he could carry out a personal vendetta. Jesus, Roy, what the heck are you thinking?" The Five-Star General Irvine Garret asked.

"Irvine, I was doing what was best. Slervansk was in no way going to accept. I knew it. I had to give him something. That something was Syed Hisdan, person who, I remind you; we were planning his assassination two weeks ago!" Campbell defended himself in that boring, military office, with a man he didn't know and that NSA prick: William Sharp.

"It's not the same, Roy. I respect you, and you are my friend, but you know as well as I do that if Slervansk dies in this Vendetta, a lot of Flak will be going at you and me, and I stress you." Garret was clearly losing his nerve.

"Let's not get excited, General Garret." Sharp said, with a winner smile. "I say this might be an excellent proving ground for Mr. Slervansk. It's a win-win situation. If Slervansk murders Hisdan, which he probably will, he will get a lot of free training, and a lot of information of what Slervansk can do, will be delivered to us. Hisdan's death will also be a most juicy bonus." Sharp, oddly, defended Roy.

"And what if he dies, Colonel Sharp?"

"Then that tells us something." He said, calmly. "Maybe those genes don't mean that lot after all."

"Maybe..." Garret hissed. "What do you know about this Slervansk individual?"

"I have his file right here, sir." The man next to Campbell said.

"Who is this?" Roy dared finally to ask.

"You haven't yet been introduced." Garret said as he started looking for a cigar. "Roy, this is Harold Miller. He's an analyst from the DIA, specialized in profiling. Harry, please."

"Mkay..." The small, kind of nerdy man said. "We've been checking his former employers. He was born near Halabja, Iraq. Then, in 1988, the Baathists attacked them with WMD's, and only him and a younger sister survived. A real character shaper, eh? Not much of him is known from that point onward, but we do know that he joined the University of Tel'Aviv. Why would a Kurd join a Jewish university? Beats me, but from then on he started working for us. He joined the Kurdish Peshmergas. Turns he did really well in there. When the war was over, he joined the London Embassy security detail. "

"So, does this give us any clue on what he might do in Iraq?" Garret enquired.

"It says plenty of things. First, he received US Green Beret training. That makes him deadly, but predictable. Second, he studied languages in Tel'Aviv. He's fluent in Arab, English, Russian and Persian, besides his native Kurdish. He can go through any group in Iraq. Third, he is driven. He will stop at neither us nor the Iraqis. Fourth, if DOD and that Dr. Hunter are right, then he has some serious DNA cocktail on him."

"So, do you think he's a threat to Hisdan?"

"Oh, no sir. I think Hisdan should pray to Allah for a quick death."

"You can't be serious!" Roy interrupted.

"Listen, Roy. I'll take William and Harry's word. Slervansk shall we watched, but not stopped." Garret informed. "Dismissed."

All three of them left the room, keeping their opinion to themselves. Harry in particular walked pretty tensely. The corridors were flooded with the sounds of walking and talking cryptographers, so he knew he wouldn't have to worry if he used his cell phone. It was a Nokia, black and very discreet. The number intended wasn't in its memory: for safety. He raised it to his face.

"Hello? This is JOSHUA." He asked, playing it as business.

"JOSHUA? This is HOUSE OF GOD. Proceed." A voice responded through the other side.

"The Kurd we were talking about; he's already on his way to Iraq."

"Yes... I'll have Syn to watch over him, JOSHUA; you have done a good job. His new denomination is "MEDE"."

"Roger that. JOSHUA out."

---

"This is the plan; we'll take off from Incirlik in a couple of CH-47 "Chinook", each carrying a team of six, their gear, and an HMMVV each. We'll land some thirty odd-miles from Kirkuk, and recon a terrorist foxhole some two miles east. Then, we'll drive south and join the SAS. From there off, we'll take some photos of the advancing troops, we set our motion sensors, and we bug out." Captain Vince Ryan, field commander of the 3rd battalion of the 10th Special Operations Forces group, explained to his team, in the equipment room. "Any questions?"

"Yes, Cap'n." Mitchell Windsor was the driver in the first HMMVV ("Humvee"). "Assuming we get on the field undetected, how can we know the terrorists won't alert their sponsoring government of our presence?"

"In case our teams are detected, private, then we'll eliminate all Ansar troops in the Region."

"Take out the entire organization? Holy shit!" That was the general response.

"I know. And that's why we must remain undetected. We'll use the Humvees for movement across the desert and possible engagements. But I wouldn't be surprised if they are knocked out by enemy RPG's. This mission won't be easy; I expect precision and discipline. Dismissed!"

Vincent was a tough man. Spending his entire youth as a light infantryman was a one-character shaper. He had also gone through one tour in Afghanistan and two tours in Iraq; one even in the deadly city of Fallujah, home of the Iraqi Islamic Revolution, how they would now call it. He knew the IRI as the palm of his hand. Maybe that's why the DOD had chosen the 10th group to perform this recon.

His hair was short, and his eyes were of a pleasant dark green, with a surprising ability of changing from approving and warm from cold and full of anger. No one had ever asked Ryan if he was from any State in the Union; he would probably respond that it didn't matter. He was always committed to his task.

And his troops respected him for it. He knew some of them; namely Lt. Roger McTarant, his second in command, Private Martin Jenkins and Corporal Craig Hernandez had shared their pasts with him, in the 173rd Paratrooper Regiment, fighting in northern Iraq, just like every man in this operation. He also knew Michael Lee and David Hazansky from the sniper team. He had also worked once or twice with Ali Marawki, the Arab translator: the son of an Iraqi political dissident living in Washington DC. Operations in the Middle East are awfully common.

The rest, he didn't know. But they couldn't be too bad, seeing as they were in the Special Forces. He was indeed proud of his position, and he had worked hard for it, and had seen the face of death in both Mosul and Fallujah; and had fought the most ruthless of the ruthless.

It was no surprise that DOD had actually explained to him alone the real porpoise of the mission.

---

Baghdad, Iraq, some hours later.

His operation was running successfully. His car was really expensive, not only of an important manufacturer but also armored. The windows would take up to a .50 Browning machinegun round; the paint was also non-flammable, and the engine was resistant to small explosions. The tires were also made to continue rolling even after pinched.

He had a personal driver and a bodyguard. Of course, a bodyguard was a common thing to have in the Sunni triangle, the no-man's land between the theocratic IRI and the westernized Kurdistan. That proved itself every time he went out into the streets; merchants, women in burkhas, suspected terrorists, all dissolved in an orange mass of people, the heavily populated areas were often out in the air markets,

But he still didn't feel safe. Gun control wasn't exactly big in Arab countries, so it was more than usual to see men packing fully loaded automatic rifles in the streets. To an American like him, this was extremely surprising, so, just for security, his bodyguards were roughly evenly armed. One of them was next to the driver, scouting the surroundings. The dust and the pedestrians made the sight difficult; it was hard to pick up a dangerous gunner coming from the crowds in the streets.

The other one was next to him. He might have been an American, but his quick conversion to Eastern politics forced him to turn to cheaper, often Russian-made weapons. His personal handgun, for instance, was a Yarygin Pya handgun, chambered for 9 x 19mm NATO ammunitions when the Soviet Union broke up.

His phone rang, and there he was, being the boss again.

"We have a situation. We just got called from one of agents. There's a man in the British Airways flight 671 we need to keep an eye on. He's after Syed, but we still don't know why." The voice explained, without greeting. Coldly and professionally, he would say.

It had not been the first time he had been warned by international sources of men entering Iraq that could turn dangerous. It probably wouldn't be the last.

---

Al Sadr international airport, formerly known as Saddam Hussein international airport, outside Baghdad.

The flight ended, breaking Elijah Mahmoud Slervansk's second sleep. The giant 747 trembled as soon as it hit the 12th runway, made of most doubtful materials. As soon as the order of taking off the seatbelts was lifted, everyone was quick to rise and head to the hall of the cockpit.

Elijah tried to evade the human mass. His high spirit was gone. His eyes returned to be sober and half-closed. That heightened spirit during the flight was unexplainable. And he now felt it. Why was he there? The shortest answer would be revenge, but he wasn't sure.

As soon as the human mass started motioning towards the exit, he noticed it; his arm was hurting. He put his hand in order to numb the pain, but... It wasn't pain, exactly. More like a violent sting, now that he thought about it.

He pulled back the sleeve of his suit to look at the wound. He was petrified; a couple of small holes were in the back side of his elbow. They were small enough for him to not notice them until they started healing. The Kurd knew instantly what had caused them.

Needles.

He looked around nervously. He wasn't a drug addict (he had never even tried that shit), and the last shot he had received had been when he joined the London Security Detail, some two years previously. He must have been injected with something...

He started analyzing his surrounding. The shot was in his left arm, so the closest person in that direction was the Turkish passenger in seat 17-a, so he decided to analyze his seat; the first thing he saw was that the seat was slightly higher than his; maybe it was configurable, but Elijah looked at it closely.

That blue seat was highly irregular at a closer inspection. Maybe something was below. Making sure that no airhostess was watching, he grabbed the seat and pulled it up, revealing the steel frame. And the man in seat 17-a's secret.

Two injection syringes lay there, empty. Elijah had the weird feeling that he had been injected with those. Maybe the Turk had left them there so that they wouldn't find them in Customs. Elijah turned to catch his seat partner; but he was gone.

He then decided he would check the needles. The first one had the remains of a transparent fluid, and the tag read clearly: "Dextropropoxyphene". Elijah bit his lip. What the fuck had that asshole injected him with? The second one read "Sodium Pentothal".

Elijah was no chemist, be he had received Green Beret training, and knew what Sodium Pentothal was. _Truth Serum, _the Kurd told himself. It didn't demand much explanation; that explained why he had been so talkative; that bastard had injected his with the Sodium Pentothal while he was still asleep, so that he would talk.

But why him? How did he know? Paranoia started gripping.

He decided that he would take both needles. But how get those beyond customs? There must have been a way... He started looking for "souvenirs." He looked down. The airhostess had given each passenger a wet cloth, probably with salts in order to calm down nerves.

He then put both needles and rolled them in the wet cloth. But what if the bad guys (Elijah would never see Arabs as "good guys" again in his life) had metal detectors? He remembered the man in seat 17-a mentioning that they had to metal detectors. But then again, it wouldn't be the first time that man had misled him about something.

He rose from his seat, and decided that he wouldn't give up. Ever since that man Campbell had told him Layla was dead, he had become emotionless, numb. But also determined and resourceful.

He started heading towards the door, bumping into fellow passengers and passing through, apologizing with a quick motion of his head and took a glance through the door.

Evidently, the Turk had lied. Again. The first airhostess avoided the metal detector; but some passengers had to go through it, seeing as there was an armed officer in the way out of the plane and into the airport.

Elijah knew he had to sneak those syringes through, so he used what best he had. That English airhostess was now approaching the exit of the 747, making her way through mostly businessmen. Elijah knew this was his chance. While her eyes and mind were focused on getting out, He silently hanged the wet cloth in her belt, action done quickly and efficiently. He, for the first time in his life, wasn't enjoying the thrill of espionage, for his feelings were numbed. The woman walked out, oblivious of the passenger in the seat 17-b's actions. She started walking out. Now, without anything to fear, Elijah headed outside.

The environment was ironic. Leaving the runway, Elijah saw the bunch of businessmen, wearing nice black suits, across the sands surrounding it. The air was dry, something he was missing. He started approaching the metal detector in the entry to the main building. Something kind of smart, in order to not allowed armed personnel into the airport in the first place. These Sunnis weren't so stupid after all.

Elijah was some four feet away from the doorway, when he was stopped. The armed guard, sporting a Kalashnikov, He had a messy beard, opposing Elijah's European look.

"Hey! You!" The Arab shouted. Clearly, they were taught English to deal with these British citizens.

"Excuse me, sir, I really need to go through." Elijah responded, his voice dead, expressionless.

"Decision of the Ayatollah Al Sadr." The guard said. "No one who isn't a contractor in the Islamic Republic of Iraq, or an Iraqi citizen, shall be allowed within the country. You'll be taken back to your country in the next flight."

Elijah's expression started leaning on the nervous side. His eyes automatically started scouting the area; the airhostess with the syringes was just crossing the Metal detector, and she was stopped by a man of similar gear as the man who had stopped him. At least that bought him time. Simultaneously, he could see a large group of businessmen grouping. Maybe they were in the same position as he was.

"Listen, your so called Ayatollah has no power in the Sunni Triangle. It's out of his jurisdiction."

The guard had courtesy of training the AK on the Kurd's stomach. "The government insists that no American or Kurdish citizens are allowed."

"I see what your game is." He said, as he put his hand in his pocket. "Mate, you go and tell your superior I work for the United Kingdom, and that our Prime Minister has been quite vocal about rejection to diplomacy."

"I won' fall in your politics and lies, dog!" He snapped. Elijah was playing with him. That was the signal for the Kurd to drop a dime he had in his pocket, while keeping the guard's sight enclosed in his blue eyes.

The dime fell into the concrete floor, making a noise; following his natural instincts, the guard looked down, and that was the chance given; He quickly grabbed the armed subject, and pulled his head downwards, in a crash course with his knee. After a thump noise, the Iraqi fell unconscious. Elijah had not been spotted. He knew that he had got himself in a fucking lot trouble. He also knew he couldn't take the AK; there was no way he could take on the whole security. He quickly passed the metal detector.

The inside was not interesting; it was a cold civilian airport. Guards armed with sub-machineguns patrolled the outside, while mainly Muslims (Judging by their clothes) sat in their chair waiting for their flight. As soon as the knocked-out guard was found, he knew those SMG's would be raining fire his way. Elijah HAD to get away. Escape was the only option.

He jogged his way to the entryway. Both guards weren't surprised; a blond-haired, blue-eyed man with a suit, it was clear he was a European contractor to them. Or maybe descendant of Europeans?

Eli analyzed the situation, like his Green Beret instructor had taught him to do; the enemy; three to four on-foot enemy personnel, armed with Sa. 26 Czechoslovakian sub machineguns. They didn't seem remarkably well trained, but open-mindedness was always necessary. He then remembered; He needed to get his hands into this syringes.

After a quick recon of that pre-fabricated airport, he spotted the young, British airhostess heading to the bathroom. He knew that once she entered that mainly smaller bathroom, he'd lose; the theocrats wouldn't like men having to bear a circumstance same as women.

Elijah Slervansk advanced among the future passengers and got at some four metres away from the airhostess, and called her attention.

"Ma'am?"

The airhostess smiled. She wasn't used to this most polite behaviour. "Sir, passengers are not allowed now; we'll have to return to Heathrow." She said, again respectful.

"I am extremely sorry, ma'am, but I just got lost. This place is a like a maze... Could you please show me the way back to the runway?" He said, as he approached the young English woman.

She turned her head and finger-pointed the exit. "Over there, sir."

"Thank you. Now, if you excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom. We are allowed to do that, right?"

"I see no problem, sir."

"Thank you!" Elijah faked happiness.

As Elijah washed his hands, he congratulated himself. He had stolen the wet cloth and the syringes with such a skill she had not even noticed it was there. He headed out.

Now he was in Iraq. He was now a hunter. Syed, that murderer, was somewhere out there, and Elijah knew he'd have to track him. Syed had killed what was left of his family. Elijah Slervansk was no family man, but he felt that void everyone spoke about; that sense that told you that you had lost something, and that you'd never fill it. Elijah had always kept his pain drowned; with work, with self-deceit, even. Then why was he suffering so much now? He had thought Layla was dead for so long he didn't even remember how much he loved her. Now, he knew that all that time she had been somewhere... Out there, he really didn't know. But she was alive. And now she was dead again. It would take time to let his wound heal; but he now almost hated himself. He was now out there for vengeance, breaking the law; he had just arrived and he had sneaked drugs into a country and physically attacked a police officer.

Elijah for the first time wondered if had crossed the point of no return. But if there was a return, then he could fix his mistake; of not trying to find out if his own sister was alive. He again considered the possibility that this hunt for Syed was just himself trying to shift the blame to some lice-infested terrorist.

Not having much more to fight for, Elijah decided that facing off that man would take all his dedication; his entire valour. Was he fighting for revenge or was he fighting to keep something like that from happening again? Maybe another renegade, within 20 years...

---

"Where do you think he is right now?" Mohammed asked, casual, to his bodyguard.

"Probably just landed, sir." Ibrahim informed. "But you don't need to worry. It will probably be just a westernized funeral service, or something."

"But I do need to worry." The Ambassador said, sharply, while raising a letter in expensive paper. "It just came from the US military attaché. Turns the Department of Defence has sponsored his resignation."

"And you think it's real...?" Ibrahim asked. "...Sir?"

"To be fair, Ibrahim?" Mohammed asked, tired. "_Neyi._"

"Sir, I really feel pain by seeing Elijah go. But, he's a grown man. He can take care of himself." The bodyguard was trying to convince his boss.

"Don't you understand this? Slervansk got himself into something; something we ought not to know. Now, I don't want to get this Embassy into not necessary conflicts. It is our mission to maintain peace, remember always, Ibrahim."

"Peace with the British, I might add."

"No, Ibrahim. Peace. The peace with the British we accomplish today might mean friendship, and friendship with the British might mean peace with the Scandinavians, and so fourth."

"Sir, what do you think the Americans want with Elijah?"

"It is not our problem, my friend." Muhammad shook his head. "He was a good man. It's just like my son; I hate to see him go, but I know I'll only hurt him if I keep him."

"Wise words, Ambassador." The protection expert frowned. "However, I feel something's wrong. Do you think he was called for some sort of mission?"

"Don't be a paranoid, Ibrahim."

---

Two miles away from the Vatican, Rome, Italy.

He called himself Syn, but that, of course, was not his real name. He would fight to keep his name secret, all for his cause. He was now an adult, but the faith he acquired during his youth was unbeatable; He was a Roman Apostolic Catholic, currently residing in Italy, despite his British origin. He had gone out of favour with the Catholic Church of his country, considering him "Too extreme", to say the least, "Fundamentalist" at best.

To him it was no surprise; a mainly Anglican nation (A variation of that Satanic Cult they called "Protestantism") would never respect a man of his conviction. Only in Italy, Rome to be more precise, he would be able to live in prosperity. Well, maybe with others, but with himself? He might have been a priest, but he had the heart of a warrior.

It was his secret from fellow priests; that, behind that faithful, old-fashioned man, lived a modern day crusader. If the laic voices already called him a "fascist" and a "catholic fundamentalist", then he would be a fully-fledged "Nazi" and "Murderer" if they knew what he did instead of preached. Of course, the commandment "You shall not kill" didn't apply to those animals; Muslims, Jews...

But, orders were orders. His group of enlightened men's leadership had sent him a mission; to watch over a young Muslim, a Kurd, who was apparently, of interest by the atheist empire (The United States of America) and who might prove useful to "their" cause.

Naturally, he wouldn't disobey. The Kurd's denomination was "Mede", which up to a point glorified the Islamic infidel. The Medes were a Mesopotamian people who fought against Nebuchadnezzar, a Babylonian king in the Old Testament. Of course, that made some sense. The Medes were from the Zagros Mountains, same as nowadays' Kurds.

Syn was used to war. To every small crusade, he took his Italian-made Tangfolio Force, chambered for the heavy .45 ACP caliber. It was rough looking and dark. He had obtained it legally; but the ammunitions were usually given by his contact in the brotherhood. The Italian government was always careful with the ammunition buying.

His plane was soon to leave; he hid the handgun in a small, radiation-resistant briefcase in order to not allow metal-detectors to catch it, took the mission's funding. (A lot of cash, split between American dollars, Euros, Iraqi dinars and some previous-issue dinars still used in Kurdistan)

---

Incirlik, US Air Force base, Southern Turkey.

They had landed in the early morning and had immediately boarded the CH-47 "Chinook" helicopters. The fuckers had a capacity of 5000 lbs, and capable of cruising at 165 mph, quite fast considering its capacity. That was achieved through twin rotors, and a powerful diesel engine. Anyway, he was already aboard that monster.

The HMMVV was hanging from a plastic rope. He didn't exactly like having more than three tons of Metal hanging from a rope, but the flight was short; Incirlik was in Southern Turkey and after a quick pass through Syrian airspace, they should be in Iraq.

Not that would be pretty. The Syrians, although not openly at war with the USA, always enjoyed harassing planes with outdated SAM missiles. Of course, Navy F-14 Tomcats and F-18 Hornets were fast enough to dodge those, -but it was always best not having to deal with the tension of flying over hostile territory.

The Chinooks, on the other hand, flew low and steady. Low enough to be invisible to SAM launchers, anyway. Small arms were another story. Usually, extremists would fire some two magazines (usually courtesy of the family's Kalashnikov, even though those bastards some times had anti-material sniper rifles on their side) every time the CH-47's passed by. _They must have got tired of being mowed down by those Ma Deuce, _Howler thought. A couple of M2HB caliber 12.7 x 99mm Browning machineguns were set to the sides of the massive helicopter. It was not an exaggeration to say that no human being could withstand more than one of those bullets without dying in a blaze of gore.

"You know, Sarge, this isn't going to be easy." Mitchell Windsor, of the Bravo Team of the 3rd Battalion of the 10th Special Forces Group, addressed Howler.

"Ain't kiddin'." Howler said, both his arms holding the M4A2 SOPMOD, aiming to the floor of the helicopter.

"So, sir? Are we really just looking? I mean... we could use satellites or something." Windsor asked from one seat to the other.

"That's not really a possibility, Private." Di'noffrio woke up from his dream. "High, irregular ground; satellites go blind with Iron quarries." He explained.

"Okay, ladies, listen up. Here's the configuration of our HMMVV. Windsor, you drive. Di'noffrio, you'll be the gunner of the Ma Deuce. Bannad, you go in the back with the Sniper team."

"Lee and Hazansky?" Asked the Kurdish translator, assigned to team Bravo.

"Exactly."

"That's a lot of weight in our ride, sir. You, me, Windsor, Bannad, Lee and Hazansky. Not to mention Lee's Sniper Rifle is just Gargantuan." Di'noffrio mentioned.

"Six of us, eh?" Hazansky, the Sniper Team's spotter, asked. "Ryan, Clark, and Marawki are going in the other one, eh? Who's with them?"

"Let me think..." Howler made a pause. "I think Jenkins and Hernandez. Oh, and what was that guy's name? McTarant!"

"I bet Hernandez will be handling that TOW, right, Di'noffrio?" Windsor commented.

"Yep. Heavy weapons training, courtesy of Fort Benning," The Italian-American laughed. "Just like yours, eh, Mike?"

"Don't mess around, boy." Lee, a half-Oriental man, sneered. "This is a true beauty; The Barret M95 Anti-Material Sniper Rifle. It uses a modified version of the same ammo used by the Ma Deuce. I can pop a Fundamentalist's cap from 1600 meters with this babe. "

"Sure. Give us grunts a fuckin' five-five-sixer, and give the Jap a bloody Anti-tank rifle! Then talk about racism in the military."

"Stop whining!" The Sergeant Demanded. "I don't want to hear a thing from you in the next three hours!"

---


	4. Chapter 3: Just like you and me

Chapter 3: Just like you and me.

"_There are no atheists in the trenches"_

-Popular proverb.

Red Square, Moscow, Russia

The dim lights of the Russian night were quite interesting; a game of reddish lights in the dark, and passing vehicles. She was wearing a heavy trench coat, and a typical Russian bearskin hat. She felt safe, in her cloth bunker, watching the space. It made her look larger than she really was; she was far too skinny to be attractive to Russian males, and she didn't have the curves for the American public. She was any European's dream. Her brown eyes were alert, sweeping the area.

Her short hair twisted and bent with the frozen wind. Her lips felt frozen, the extremely thin layer of saliva's temperature dropped rapidly. She doubted how so many people could live there. She was Russian, yet not accustomed to the cold. She had spent most of her breathing life in a former Soviet mental institution. They kept their loonies warm.

Not that she was insane; but it easier to say that Nadezhda Slonoskova was mentally ill rather than to face the horrid fact that she had been the KGB's plaything, The war on Capitalism had required extreme measures, including creating psychic units. Not many believed in them, but Yuri Andropov did. He had spent millions of his budget in researching Nadia's and many other's heads, searching for these so called Psychic Powers.

They were the insane ones.

"_Nadezhda Slonoskova_?" A voice asked from behind, a Russian male coming from the back.

"Hello?" She asked to the dark. The figure approached; tall, with his eyes darkened by the shadow of protuberating eyebrows and a fur hat.

"Ma'am, my name is Pyotr Nikolayevich, I'm here to help you."

"Were you the one who called?"

"Yes, Nadia. I hear you want to leave Russia."

"Wouldn't you?" The thin woman snapped.

"_Pravda. _But it's not me we are talking about."

"Me, right?" She asked, as if he had offended her. Her gazing eyes stared.

"Yes. That's why you need to stay put, follow my commands, and don't say a word, understand? I need your help. And you need mine." He said, advancing. Typical Russian, his eyes were cold and his jaw finished in a "V". His clothes were dark, as was the whole atmosphere around him. "C'mon, girl, we don't have much time."

He took her deeper into city; the smell of wet paint, dirty water lurked among Moscow's streets; the cold was almost palpable, and her breath was visible and stunning. They got into an alley. In Nadia's opinion, these were used only for drug dealing; the Russian Mob (The name the Russian authorities gave to their renegade KGB agents) was en expert in that, along with selling Soviet weapon systems to the highest bidder; from Chechen Freedom Fighters to Central Asian terrorist in Tajikistan.

"Here."

"Were the hell are you taking me, Pyotr?" Nadia asked, showing her strong side. Her voice was high-pitched, and too sober for most Russian's liking. _Vodka doesn't freeze_, she grinned.

"I need to ask you something." The man informed. He leaned as he got his hand into his pocket. Nadia's eyes widened as she noticed, the small, black revolver; and pointed it to Nadia's head. "Don't move a muscle!"

"Drop that _Naga_nt!" She snapped. She was panicking; looking everywhere for help; no one was around; it was not safe to walk around Moscow at night. She then stared at the gun. The hammer was not cocked, but that could change; her heart was pounding, her face's expression was similar to the one of someone who swallowed a lemon. There was a slight refraction of light in a dark, metal emergency stair, some 20 meters away, across the street..

"Don't make noise!" He said, as he got closer and put the gun against Nadia's pale forehead. "I've been sent to clean up scum like you!"

"Please, don't do it, Pyotr! I don't deserve to die!"

"Kill you, girl? I don't think you understand. We need to fix our mistakes... You are one!" His eyes were cold and psychotic as always. She was a dead woman breathing. Her eyes leaned to the left. The glint was there... It looked as if the light of the light post was reflecting in a piece of glass in the dark. But who would put glass in an Emergency stair?

A tear run down Nadia's cheek. "You will drop that Revolver and I'm going to call the police."

Pyotr cocked the hammer. Nadia closed her eyes in a reflex motion, as she head the finger slowly pressing the trigger. She heard the gunshot and blood on her face. Odd; people who are killed shot never get to hear the gunshot, as the bullet is quicker that sound. Then...

---

Boris Yuryevicht Growslac was a sharpshooter for the Moscow Police. He had stayed hidden for three hours in the cold, in the dark, in an Emergency Stair. He had positioned himself so that his SV-99 Short Range sniper rifle's scope could pick up the light post's light.

That miniature .22LR Precision Rifle was charged, and aimed. It was specifically designed to be silent, small in caliber for non-lethal neutralization, and other tasks, assigned to the Police.

It was within a second that the person he was expecting; Pyotr Nikolai Kolanevsky (or Suspect 1, as he was supposed to call him), a representative from the Russian Mob, raised a small American-made Smith & Wesson revolver, caliber .32 S & W. It was really hard to see, and knew he had to save the life of that woman, codenamed Skinny 1.

Skinny 1 was visibly shaking as Kolanevsky's revolver approached her forehead. His crosshair started shaking; indeed, his heart rate was growing, knowing that woman's life was at stake. He played it like he had done for what seemed a trillion times; think it's just training, just an exercise. His grip became firmer.

The small 4x scope was more than enough to choose a part of Kolanevsky's body, at those few 46 meters. He had a few choices; firing to the knee, although easy, was very risky; the average person suffers a spasm whenever shot, so he would pull the trigger and blow Skinny 1's brain into a grayish mass.

The revolver in itself was risky as well; if it had been an automatic handgun, he could have just shot it, but being a revolver (upon closer inspection, a cheap imitation of a Smith & Wesson) the round could detonate the exposed cartridges and Slonoskova would be lucky if she didn't have her torso ripped to shreds.

The head would be plain stupid; the .22 round, at this distance, would not be able to piece the skull, and again a tactical dead end. But, what about the Suspect's hand? The palm was half exposed because he was holding the Revolver only with his fingers and the upper part of the palm (Proving he was not a professional). He would have to break the revolver's handle, which wouldn't be so tough. He aimed carefully at the hand of the hostile, and then he noticed it was slowly moving; a hand could tire after aiming for more than 5 seconds. Skinny 1's lips were still moving; maybe she was talking him out of murder, but Boris had not become a figure in the Moscow Police department for taking chances.

He touched the trigger softly with the articulation between the first and second phalanxes. He then put the first phalanx on the other side. This done, he started pulling slowly.

---

"Please! You'll be put in jail!" Slonoskvo repeated. "Is that what you want?"

"You little bitch... " Kolanevsky sneered.

That was the second before Boris' leather-clad finger finished the long process of pulling the trigger, sending a miniature needle through the .22 Long Rifle caliber cartridge. All working fine, the gunpowder was effectively detonated, pushing a small lead piece forward with great strength. All the gas generated by the miniature explosion was concentrated and pushed forward through the barrel. As the small grains of cordite settled, the round went right through Kolanevsky's hand's metacarpus, effectively shattering it.

The pain was unbearable; the small bones were broken and the bullet destroyed the revolver's handle, as a small cloud of blood filled the scene. As small as the bullet was, the shock was immense; Kolanevsky was forced to fully open his deformed hand and let the revolver fall defenseless to the small, and cried as a wounded animal. The blood sprayed Nadia's gentle face, and she fell backwards to the snow.

"Go! Go! Go!" Boris shouted through his radio, informing that he had wounded Kolanevsky and ordering the Moscow police SWAT team to advance. Simultaneously, he pulled the small bolt of his SV-99 and inserted another almost pathetic .22 caliber cartridge into the chamber.

"Sasha!" Apparently, Pyotr was calling for backup, while holding his blood dripping hand intensely, and turning the snow into a pinkish rug. Meanwhile, the young Nadia raised from her cold bed and watched as a group of men with tactical SWAT outfits entered from the entry of the alley, using sub-machineguns and Kevlar vests and helmets.

---

Boris shifted his attention to see one of the rusty doors of the alley open, to reveal a large man in his 40's, probably a fellow Russian mobster, with a beard that reminded of Lenin and the body of a bear. But a man of his profession was not scared of size; he was scared of firepower, and that man sported a deadly AKMS – the folding-butt version of the antique and famous AK-47. He was carrying the butt-stock folded, meaning he had just picked it up. _So that must be Sasha..._

As soon as Sasha dared to aim the AKMS, one of the SWAT officers (A young Sergeant named Dmitri Kalehnikht) aimed in a much more systematic fashion his SMG –a cylinder-barreled Bizon, chambered for the 9 x 18mm Soviet rounds, designed to be the counterpart of the German 9 x 19mm Luger round (although the name sounded rather Nazi and it was changed to "Parabellum").

Anyways, those bulky cylinder-shaped magazines, set under the barrel, could handle up to 66 rounds (more than enough to clear a room without ever releasing the finger from the trigger) It was somewhat pretty, but Soviet weapons designers never cared too much about how their weapons looked. _That was a bourgeoisie practice, _they would say. Kalehnikht pulled the trigger. Thanks to a titanic rate of fire, almost 17 bullets sprayed Sasha and turned his head into purple goo.

He could see the police taking Miss Slonoskova to safety. He would take part in the debriefing, if all went as normal.

---

Downtown Baghdad, Iraq.

It took him around an hour to get used to the dryness and the heat, but he had been there before and it took mainly memories to get Elijah used to the temperature. The hardest thing, though, would be mixing with the crowd; blue eyes, blond hair, and a suit weren't so common, and he was sure he was an attention caller. He didn't mind.

Eli's Kurdish status used to be more than enough for arrest back in the good old days of Saddam. And arrest was no fun –torture was what could be expected; electrical cables set to Testicles (Elijah wasn't quite sure what they did with women, but he suspected rape), a quirky version of the "submarine" (diving the victim's head back and forward into a pool of water, trying to cause effects of drowning) using battery acid, and Slervansk had once heard the story of a woman with whom Uday Hussein (Saddam Hussein's son, commander of the Republican Guard) had raped. He had _sort _of fallen in love, in his own psychotic way. Anyway, she refused Uday's preposition. _Who would not? _The Kurd wondered.

So, he kidnapped her at night, raped her through every possible orifice in her body, then killed her and mutilated her (Maybe not in that order) and dumped the pieces at her parent's home's doorstep. Elijah was now thinking about two things:

First was the horrible feeling that those monsters could have tried something like that on his sister, _his Layla. _Elijah considered himself a modern Muslim; he respected women and much more if the one in question was from his own blood. Maybe they drove her insane. _They could do that. _

The other was a much less natural feeling, and this only went through his mind thanks to Eli's analytic nature; were these people just crazy because of power, or should have been just another man, he would still be a killer? He was always respectful of authority; even when he had his own thoughts, he carried out his orders. It was his job.

Elijah had now entered the open Market region; in this anarchy, everything was up in sale; although officially occupied by IRI; the Sunni Triangle pretty much handled itself. It was a true sanctuary protected by the UN; Why? Before Gulf War II, the UN had been criticized for supporting the United States no matter what.

In order to dissipate such arguments, the United Nations put the Security Counsel in order to vote the prohibition of international security forces in the Sunni Triangle; including US Marines and Kurdish Peshmergas. The last directive held by George Sears, of the Republican Party, as a President, was to veto such a suggestion.

Unfortunately for the country of the stars and stripes, Sears's moderate stance after his predecessor, the also Republican George W. Bush, made him an easy target to the socialist governments in France, Spain, and Germany, elected by the Anti-American outrage following Gulf War II. The UN decided to restrict America, and forbid Sears from action in the Defense Counsel of the UN.

The veto was ignored.

Sears, outraged, left the UN, and decided that America would be better off outside the world picture for a while. Then, the newly elected representative from the IRI, with support of France and Spain, within the counsel, and Iran, Syria, Libya, and Pakistan outside, suggested, that the Islamic Republic of Iraq was allowed to move three divisions into the Sunni Triangle in order to protect it. The subliminal bit was that it had to protect it from US imperialism, and their thugs in the region, namely Israel and Kurdistan.

Sears didn't even bother to veto, seeing as his opinion would be ignored anyway. Although the Germans and the British were doubtful, France and Spain sped IRI into launching those units. They were convinced that they could bring some sort of peace, and besides, 75,000 men are in no way enough to look after the rebellious population of the Sunni Triangle. It was all just for show.

The Media sort of congratulated the decision; the ones ignored were two; the Republican Party, and the Military analysts; they were the ones who had two questions in mind; Why to launch 75,000 men to a certain death if UN had taken control so quick, and what did IRI do to build an army so fast?

Elijah, who was trained in espionage by MOSSAD, Israel's Foreign Intel Services (As opposed to the ruthless Shin Bet, the ones in charge of local intelligence) assumed that Proscription could build armies in seconds; after all, it just took Hitler ten years to build 32 Divisions, which more than enough to take over Europe.

The Kurd also considered Mercenaries; Conservatives and Right-Wingers in general claimed that IRI had been laundering some money from local drug runners, coming from Afghanistan. The multimillion dollar business of Heroin could provide enough currency to buy some... 10,000 Weekend warriors? (Weekend warriors was a nickname the British had for cheap Mercenaries)

So, Elijah, every once in a while, spotted jeeps with some four Iraqi Infantrymen, not much more. They were more like cops. Cops with Assault Rifles. Not that it bothered him.

His senses were at full alert; he never quite knew. The good thing about a lawless country was the products; Elijah spotted, at about ten yards from him, a large wooden table, in which some fifteen Kalashnikov assault rifles rested, peacefully. There were also a couple of RPG-7 tubes and about eight Anti-Tank rounds. The seller; a slightly over-weight Arab man, who was dealing with a tall man in his 40's wearing a coat.

Elijah, after living for three years in a country where guns were banned, felt quite weird; as far as he was concerned, U$S 150 could buy a fully auto AK-47, (Those guns, probably remnants of Saddam Hussein's army, were so cheap using them as a present would be a robbery) which would probably knock out the average British liberal. Being able to use a Glock C18 (As his weapon of choice while escorting the ambassador) and a SIG Sauer P228 (his favorite gun for Embassy protection) while most civilians were defenseless –_unarmed- _he corrected himself for the sake of political correctness. He possessed an Elite status, in his own way.

Elijah kicked a bit of dust from beneath his shoes. He had come in such a hurry to find answers that he really never thought how to find that man –Syed Hisdan, his name was. Iraq was a very fucking big country, and searching for man of Hisdan's connections was like trying to catch anchovies in the Atlantic Ocean with a Snorkel and his bare hands. Maybe it he still had some side-effects of that Sodium Pentothal, because those comparison didn't really sound like him.

---

"Range?" The voice asked, through the radio. A ray of light entered through the window, quite clear in the darkness of the room; the windows were sealed with wooden plaques, except for that small area in which the sunlight went through, and the barrel of his rifle.

"30 meters, at best? Damn, this Kurd won't know what hit him." He said, looking at him. The 6x scope could pick up anything, given he was in the proper light. His target _–a Persian (or Kurd, whatever) slave by the name of Elijah Slervansk- _was standing right in the middle of the market; surrounded by small businesses, selling fruits, oil tanks, and weapons.

"What about Hassan's team?"

"They should be on their way; as soon as they arrive, I'll take my shot." He said, while shifting the scope's red dot to Slervansk's head from his heart. Death would come quicker that way. His rifle was a Czech-made 700a sniper Rifle, chambered for the .308 Winchester round. His head rested on the heightened butt stock, his breathing slow and calculated.

---

"Hassan? Where are you?" The radio spouted, the voice suffering extreme deformation due to the static electricity of that old, military-issue radio.

"I'm on my way. Is the target at the market?" He answered.

"Just as expected. That tracking device is working... "

"Yes..."

Hassan's ride was a Chevrolet pickup; in military terms, a "Technical"; a civilian pickup, sometimes equipped with heavy machineguns or rocket launchers, meant as a high-speed support combat system for low-budget guerrilla warfare. Americans were used to this cheap counterpart of the jeep, and even small arms fire could penetrate the hull and kill the passengers; most anti-vehicle measures were over-kill against Technicals.

There were three of them; each carrying 5 men equipped with Kalashnikovs and an RPG per crew. Besides, each Technical had a driver and support gunner; each handling a .50 cal Browning machinegun. His crew of around 20 was considered to be one of the best "Hired Guns" team in the Sunni Triangle, a nice term for mercenaries.

He didn't cost much; just the feeding in long term missions and the ammunitions for more violent jobs. This one fitted more into the latter; a simple ambush and assassination. He was also working with a couple of former "Fedayeen Saddam" snipers, who were now tracking the subject. Those men were plain old killers, and Hassan was sure that they were good. Almost eighteen arms all aimed at the same man; what was his employer so afraid of?

They were now crossing the dust streets, just in form Karrada Out, Baghdad's most important street. The non-paved streets though were shaky and made him nervous; he used to be a Sergeant in the Republican Guard, but none of his men were true fighters; some of them just were in the "Resistance". The whole thing was bad because his own men packed full-auto rifles that were loaded and safeties off. A little bump in the road, and one of his men might lose his brain.

---

Elijah shifted his attention; the crowd was dense, a lot of people walking around. A woman came by; (he could tell by her Burkha, which is not of common use among Kurdish females, so he assumed she was Arab) and she then faced him.

"Are you American?" She asked, with clearly difficult English; _she must have learnt from the recently gone occupiers, _Elijah reasoned. She sounded mysterious, and a bit jumpy. Because in Iraq, especially in the Sunni triangle, Americans weren't welcome.

"No. Can I help you?" Eli's half-British accent gave all the explanations needed.

"You must get out." She said, doing her best to sound well. "Or you will die." She was a bit short, so Eli had to bed his neck in order to face her correctly.

"What?"

"I heard some man talking... He said he had to kill a Western looking man..."

Elijah made a quick scan of the scene; large crowd, hard to see. Besides, he didn't have much time to analyze and determine possible threats.

"How would you know it's me?"

"Taken a look around?" She asked, bending her head.

"Good point." He said, half-closing his eyes.

---

"Who is he talking to?" His spotter asked.

"I don't know, my friend... Women seem to fly around Western dogs..." He answered. He knew, since his wife was always too helpful with foreigners. Too much for his liking, in any case, who he thought they were invaders, no matter if those were soldiers, businessmen, or tourists.

"You think she's warning him?"

"Might be. That man, Hassan, he's a fool."

"Too loud, I agree." He noticed his pulse moved the rifle's aim and he was now targeting Slervansk's abdominal region. "I think he's entering now..."

---

The small alley lead into the market; the dusty Technicals entered it and, ignored by the roaming crowd, started surrounding the middle. Slervansk was quite surprised. Why weren't they running and cowering, hiding from the men with the big guns? They were now dropping down, shouting in Arabic.

From what Elijah could understand, the bad guys were apparently looking for someone. Eli was fluent in Arabic as long as all was quiet and the person talking to him was just one. That loud crowd in the open market with armed grunts wasn't the case.

"Please, you must live." She said. Elijah's blue eyes met hers. It wasn't a romantic scene, but Eli noticed her worry, her pain.

"Why are you doing this?" Elijah asked, while he shifted the attention. Among wooden sticks that supported most stands, he could see some men that looked like militiamen approaching, loaded guns in their hands.

"You would never understand."

"Who sent you? Who are you working for!?" Elijah's eyes were fully open, and he seemed worried. Why was that woman warning him?

"He called himself "House of God"... Allah left this land a long time ago." She said, her brown eyes becoming teary, wetting the Burkha covering her face. "Please, just go. Leave Iraq."

"But you just told me to..."

"I'm disobeying my orders... please..."

"Who sent you?" Elijah sounded worry.

That was the moment in which Eli saw a glint of light in one of the dark windows in the building surrounding the open market. Then, the window lit up with flash of a rifle. By the time the Kurd heard the gunshot, it was late.

The shot, meant for him, was received by that woman... The gunshot went right through her lower spine, to then graze her spleen and finally exiting right above her navel. To then hit the ground next to Elijah's left foot. With her spine severed, she lost control of her legs and fell on her knees, to be grabbed quickly by Elijah who was shocked and couldn't react well.

"Why did you do that!?" Elijah knew the woman had seen the flash before him, and decided to die instead of him. His tactical instincts were telling him to leave her to die and to cower; it case the sniper's rifle was semiautomatic, every second counted.

"You are Layla's brother, are you not?" She said, blood creeping from her mouth, as she raised her hand and grazed Elijah's face's side, like a mother admiring her son's growth. Elijah's lip was trembling, as the Victoria Falls of Emotional stress rained on his back. "You are her spitting image... Except your eyes... They have brightness... A passion... She lost that. Never let that be taken from you, Elijah."

"Who are you?" Elijah was a step away from absolute mental collapse, and that reflected in the weakness of his voice.

"Look for... "House Of God"..."She said, her eyes slowly heading upwards. She was entering into shock. Elijah noticed the men around him were aiming their rifles at him. He had his mind on other things.

"Who is he? What do you know about him?" Elijah's voice slowed down, trying to be easy to understand to someone who was dying quickly.

"He said... he was a "Blood Cardinal"."

"A catholic?"

"_House of God_..._"_

She repeated that. She was no longer making any sense. After the third time, Elijah's grip started to weaken as her eyes went blank and life slipped from her. Elijah lowered his head, as he let her fall slightly backwards, leaving the corpse in an awkward, bent posture. As he let her be, he saw two men surrounding him. There were shooters entrenched in the more complex stands, as civilians looked motionless at the scene. Maybe they thought this could end bloodlessly. Poor fools.

Elijah knew the sniper wasn't going to kill him, now that they could capture him. The sons of bitches were yelling at him, but he was also numbed; not clearly understanding what was going on. The dust entered his eyes.

---

"If he does anything stupid, take your shot!"

"What are you talking about? Hassan's men got him and -" He said, confidently, until he was interrupted.

"I know this man, Yosuf. He's a born killer."

What was his friend saying? There were two men with Kalashnikovs at less than four meters, not to mention that one with the pistol approaching him from behind. His scope targeted his throat now. A small trigger pull would end it this soon.

---

Elijah felt a footstep behind him, and a cold barrel pressing against his kidney, and a disturbing breath harassing his ear.

"Stand up, now!" The man behind him yelled.

Elijah complied. There was no point in arguing. His head ached and he had the sun on his face, and that man behind him was aiming. So, was this how it was supposed to end? Ambushed by mysterious armed group, a dead civilian next to him. They were being kicked out by the gunmen, a quite smart procedure if the enemy wanted a good publicity. Eli couldn't blame him. He felt his own sweat slowly coming down his forehead, racing down his neck and soaking his back. He painstakingly slowly raised his arms, impotent and nearly defeated.

Furthermore, he could clearly see the two snipers; one posted in the buildings in front of him, the other in the lowly apartments, their line of sight perpendicular to one another. That technique almost assured that no hiding spot could avoid the two of them. Eli had to come up with something, fast.

---

Northern Iraq, 50 miles south of Mosul. Three years earlier.

Michael Gray rested assured; he had the best of the best at his side. He had been assigned to that job his unit commander, a Major that chances were would retire after this, and probably be shelled by civilians as he returned home, those ammunitions being insults and mildly decomposed eggs.

His enemy was no longer the Iraqi army; they had been called in south, fighting the British in Basra. This time it was a terrorist organization; his first job in the Middle East had involved something similar; Al Qaeda encampments deep into the Arabian Desert. No, this was a whole different deal.

Ansar Al-Islam was a terrorist organization that reached around 700 members; originally Kurdish, had declared war on one of Kurdistan's parties, the PUK (Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, a pro-US Right Wing organization who had sent most of its Peshmergas to fight with US troops ) With time, they had Arabized themselves, becoming more and more radical; destroying beauty Saloons, shooting women because they wouldn't wear Burkhas, were along its usual crimes. No wonder they hated seeing Kurds becoming more and more Western.

They also possessed a Taliban style enclave near the Iranian border; surrounded by Kurdish Militiamen under the orders of PUK and their US officers, it seemed like the end was near. They had received not much less than a million American Dollars from Iraqi Intelligence to sabotage the Peshmerga/Green Beret advance in the region, along with a few 66mm Mortars and AK-47s.

So, there they were. The Pesh amongst him were, once again, scattered and all awaiting orders. That Kurdish marksman, -Elijah Slervansk, his name was- was scanning the area with his binoculars. The sun was going down.

"So, we attack at nightfall?" The US officer asked politely.

"There's no point in that, Captain Gray." The Kurd informed factually, as he kept looking through the binoculars. "We don't have Night Vision equipment as you do. Going uphill against .30cal machineguns and 66mm mortars in the dark –bad idea." Slervansk, apparently, enjoyed showing Gray how good his English was.

"Then, we only have less than half-an hour" Michael blurted, as he stared at the sun, slowly retreating into the mountains; in them, the Ansar Al-Islam had set machinegun nests and mortar positions, in order to protect a radio position that coordinated Iraqi forces in the North; if Ansar fell, so would the Iraqi army.

"Not quite. We'll stay for the night, and attack at sunrise."

"What? You mean we'll lose eight hours?" Michael was oblivious to what –if anything- was going through the Peshmerga's mind at the moment.

"They won't be lost. We'll be waiting for reinforcements. Your fellow Green berets, along with 100 of our fighters are approaching this position; we just pinpoint the location."

"Acceptable." The American admitted. "You're still packing that M9?"

"Yes. It was a gift from one of your compatriots." He pulled it out of its holster, and grazed it with his hands. "Nine millimeters, perfect aiming system, 15 rounds, plus one in chamber... How could someone not love this gun?"

"9mm, dude. Won't stop these _Izlamazoids_, I tell you." Gray smiled, and put his arm in the Kurd's shoulder.

"Guess so."

"What's this quarrel with you guys anyway?" Michael was really interested in the whole deal, so he preferred asking an expert.

"These _Izlamazoids_, as you call them, hate the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan because we represent what Iraq could be after Saddam's finished. Look at our streets; women can show their faces, we have movies, cafes, Internet..."

"You seem pretty proud."

Elijah smiled. "I am. But, just like Anti-American bastards like KDP or "Commies", as you call them, from the PKK (Partiya Karkaren Kurdistan, or Kurdish Workers Party) Ansar doesn't want that. They want Kurds to return to the Stone Age, like our Arab counterparts. Sorry, but I won't take part in that. "

"So, you're a Politics buff?"

"You can say I am." The both of them relaxed. They were among high grass and were hard to see, so they just forgot about the whole thing for a second. "I don't really get the people in your country; why some of them don't want to help us..."

"You really like American Politics, huh?" The Captain asked. "Why, I wonder."

"My education, perhaps."

"You are a big mystery, Elijah. For instance, where did you learn speaking English?"

"My foster parents had a lot to do with that. My foster father was a businessman in Istanbul. He wanted me to follow the family business. I went to English classes, and all that. I was barely a teenager when they heard about Kurdish Ultra-Left-Wing elements attacking Turkey. I know my foster mother wanted the best for me, but I think my Foster father was afraid I may become a nationalist. So they enlisted me in the least Islamic spot they could find. Tel'Aviv University, Israel. I was lucky I didn't turn into a rabbi, though my faith in Islam grew very weak. I studied languages and political sciences, but had to drop it. How about you?"

The Captain smirked. "Not much. My parents could be classified as Hippies. They took me so deep into Vegan culture and all that shit I didn't want to hear anything from "Cultural Relatvism" or "Flower Power". They almost died when I told them I joined the Army. Infantry Officer School. I was Airborne for a couple of years, 'till my C.O., the one I told you about, decided he wanted me to move on. I was sent to Fort Bragg. Virginia, the next day."

"Special Forces, huh?"

"Yeah, the Elite of the Elite." He then looked at Eli's red beret. "You are a Peshmerga Elite Officer yourself."

"I didn't tell you the reason I dropped Political Sciences. I was sucked in, through a Mossad contact, into the shadowy underworld of American Foreign Intelligence." The Kurd said, with an ironic tone. "The CIA dragged a few hundred Pesh to form a Special Forces entity, with a bunch of foreign educated, Right Wing leaning, young Kurds, who had the physical and mental ability, of course. I qualified, for the marksman section."

"Really? I've always been the CQB type. " He said, touching the SOCOM in his leg holster.

"Too gruesome. Not that I'm easily shocked, but I don't want _Izlamazoid _brains all over me." Both of them giggled.

"What is worth this? I mean, killing your country men..." the Sergeant hissed. Maybe he had swollen the doctrine of the Army, and thus, he understood the meaning of nationality. Maybe that was why he got called "Nazi"so often?

"They fight for... A dead ideal. Well, one that never really existed. Sometimes I feel it's the same with us. Everyone fights for ideals." The Iraqi explained.

"Things that don't really exist? I don't know. Ideals... Only the country exists..."

Elijah would have liked to argue, but there was no point. "To shorten up, they fight for what they believe in."

"Just like you and me." Elijah was a bit discomforted by that answer.

It would take six hours of difficult sleep before the attack begun.


	5. Chapter 4: Matter of Ideals

Chapter 4: A matter of ideals.

"A coward dies many times before the time of his death. It is the valiant one who dies only once."

William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"

00000

Fort Meade, Maryland

"Yes sir. We got him." The terrorist reported; a non-encrypted transmission in a sea of satellite communications. They made the deadly mistake of mentioning the name of that Kurdish Renegade. "Slervansk is ours."

What they didn't know was that after Shadow Moses, the names of the FOX-HOUND members had been put into Echelon, a machine used by the National Security Agency, capable of tracking special keywords in the internet and through satellite communications. Although it was originally planned to track down any possibility of non-American Government factions knowing about the identities of the FOX-HOUND members, the named shared by the Assassin, and this young man was detected and reported. The entire conversation was immediately sent, in real time, to Colonel William Sharp, at his desk in Fort Meade.

"Good job, Hassan." An Arab-accented voice cracked in the low quality transmission. To Sharp's idea, this could well be a former Baathist intelligence officer, or a Shiite commander. Up to the point, it didn't matter. All he knew was that there were already three NSA officers trying to follow the communication. Soon, they'd pinpoint the location with a Satellite; as far as he knew, there was a Meteorological satellite, owned by France, that was now somewhere above Kazakhstan. Within three hours, it would make a 20-min sweep through Iraq; more than enough to track the constant flow of radio communications the gunmen who had the Kurd at gun point used.

In Will's opinion, Campbell was just wrong in believing that... His thought was interrupted.

"What do you want me to do with him?" The mercenary asked. His voice, a dry tone, was more than enough to make the small hairs on Sharp's back stretch.

"Execute him." Bill quickly hit the desk. _Fucking bastard! Campbell, you stupid fuck... _"Make an example out of that traitor."

00000

Baghdad, the Sunni Triangle

Elijah felt the pistol touching his back, a horrible experience... His initial reaction was to stretch his muscles and turn his head around; and Arab, dressed in traditional clothes and with a Browning Hi-Power in his hand. The square shaped slide and the lack of painting made it clear that it was a military issue version. He knew he was FUBAR; but surrendering was not an option. He remembered what Campbell told him about Layla; that she had given up her will to live. Elijah had sworn to himself he wouldn't walk down that path. There _had _to be a way out.

He turned around civilly, scouting. He noticed that one of the Technicals (The US Army jargon had stuck with him)'s men had not yet been deployed. That meant that it was a quick support vehicle... But where the fuck where those IRI forces? Hadn't they heard the gunfire?

To Sniper Wolf's brother's infinitely good luck, the gunshot was heard in a three block radius, and by chance, it reached a jeep patrol. Four infantrymen from the Islamic Republic of Iraq's 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment suddenly stopped their vehicle as soon as they heard more than 200 grains of gunpowder detonating.

It was pure common sense that told them that reinforcements were necessary. Thanks to a quick army set up, handled by a former Red Army officer, they had a direct-intervention unit in the neighborhood, comprised of a T-72 tank, a couple of UAZ Soviet-made infantry vehicles, and around 10 infantry soldiers, armed with Kalashnikovs and Ingram MAC-10 SMG's. It was not combat capable equipment, but more than enough to mow down those annoying Sunni resistance elements. Mercenary companies like Hassan's were a small bother, when one had a seven-ton tank on their side.

ETA: 5 minutes.

00000

"On your knees, infidel" The terrorist spat, Elijah obeying nicely. There was no point in struggling; not if he could walk out alive, ready to fight another day. Slowly, he put the pistol in his holster and pulled the rifle off his back.

"I guess you are quite the follower, if you are ready to abandon the Koran's precept in its name." Elijah didn't even mention he was a Muslim by birth as well.

The terrorist didn't even care what the Kurd would do; he raised the Soviet Assault rifle. To Eli's eyes, it seemed like he projected himself upwards, like an evil giant, and then lowered it like a waterfall, in a crash course with Elijah's face. The Kurd's body shook in an unearthly manner upon impact; his head flew downwards and hit the dusty floor in a freakish manner. His torso soon become horizontal, his legs badly positioned, causing his muscle to resent.

Eli's blue eyes closed for a bit, but he then opened them wide; the white part of his eye was reddish due to the blood, causing a –despite the circumstances- amazing picture; a wonderful contrast of bleeding veins and the blue iris, which could have charmed an artist. His crazed eyes never lost sight of the Browning in the hip holster.

He couldn't think. In that moment, the rush to his head turned him into an absolutist, someone who had his mind set and would never think otherwise; all of him was focused on the gunman; the Kurd had forgotten who he was, who Layla was, who the hell was that soldier in front of him? He didn't care. He just wanted the fucking gun.

Without even acknowledging the other gunmen's existence, he instinctively moved his leg, in a parallel way to the ground, towards the Gunman's leg. Eli's foot hit the tango in the knee, the sudden amount of pain striking the terrorist, making him fall in no way different to Eli. The difference lay in the AK-47, which instinctively fired the entire 30 round magazine, in a drunken way; of course, no bullet hit Elijah, but the gunman in front of him got sprayed with the medium caliber projectiles, the juices of his body mixing, changing of chamber, small roses filling his shape; a pitiful sight.

The Kurd raised among the dust; becoming a reasonable human being again; he noticed the guy with AK was still alive; he quickly took the gun from his holster with a quick pull and then raised the terrorist himself; holding him by the armpits, leaving the AK in the floor. Who was going to need it anyway? By the time the dust had cleared and the five other terrorists realized what had happened, Eli used the now-conscious terrorist as a human shield, his own Browning grazing his temple.

The five tangos (it seemed unit two had heard something, taking the leader with them) pointed their guns in distress; Slervansk seemed to know where the snipers were, for he maneuvered in such a way to avoid both of their positions...

"Let him go!" One of them yelled. Eli didn't respond: he just kept dragging the tango backwards, towards a door. The Renegade knew clearly that his only chance was to stay indoors.

"Come and get him!" The target shouted back, reaching for the door. The sweat was now a constant thing, his eyes still staring. He was just on the verge of breakdown.

But not just yet.

He reached to the handle, and pulled the magazines from the tango's belt. Three other 15 round magazines; _not half bad,_ he told himself. The door was locked. He bent himself and fired at the doorknob with 9mm handgun, shattering the pins. He re-positioned it, about to blow the terrorist's head.

"He's going to escape!" The sniper hissed through the radio, when...

The IRI officer's prediction was wrong. The vehicles' engines were hot already, so the time spent was greatly reduced. The surprise was epic when one of the snipers, set in an abandoned apartment, spotted the T-72. One has to understand that not even the roughest of men can stand the sight of a 44 ton monster, but that wasn't the worst of it; a 125mm 2A46M/ D-81TM smoothbore main gun, aimed towards the too-visible from that point, sniper. Capable of going through medium armor, the 125mm ammunition was more than enough blow the apartment to hell, the sniper in the window turned to his basic materials; no longer a proud Arab, but a just a bunch of Carbon and some proteins.

All turned to dust, in deafening explosion, as a vertical volcano blew up in the window and shot dust and debris all over the place.

It is not a common thing; hearing the explosion; all five terrorists turned to some degree, to witness one of the snipers blow up; and the IRI armored division bust into the marketplace, trashing the wooden stands, showing their power. The other sniper; Yosuf, fired an instinctual shot towards the bunch, and decided that retreat was the only option. Not before, though, killing the bastard.

He lined up the scope. The Kurdish fiend was opening the door, entering one of the abandoned apartments, abandoned since the fall of Baghdad to IRI forces. He knew he had almost no chance of hitting Slervansk without killing that man... he was aware of sacrifice, anyway. He lined the scope to the target's chest, as if the gunman and Slervansk were just one being. He violently pulled the trigger.

The bullet, less than a pound of metal, flew and spun in a never-ending course that always had an ending. The terrorist sniper, though, forgot a kilometric detail, something that saved Elijah Slervansk's life. Every shot that surpassed fifty meters had to have the Magnus effect in consideration. A difference counted in millimeters at that distance.

When the bullet spins, rifle-shaped projectiles tend to turn to the right if the scope wasn't "zero'd" (The act of modifying the scope's setting in order to make the crossing of the crosshairs and the point where the bullet will land match) in correctly. Now, even though it didn't much matter if he was shooting the average man who in truth Slervansk was using a human shield, as the shot was meant to go through the hostage's lung into Slervansk's heart: Easy money. But Comrade Magnus's discovery was forgotten. The bullet started turning to the right due to gravitational circumstances. What should have landed in the right lung turned to the left from the victim's perspective; thus hitting the right side of spine.

Typical of bullets that had to cross the entire body, the bullet hit the gunman's vest, losing 75 percent of its speed, turning into a dragging monster that crushed organs on its way rather than piercing them; then, a contact with the 4th rib ended with a broken rib, a lung that seemed to be hit with a trillion nails, and a bullet that had lost 98 if its original speed. The crazy journey ended as the 7.62 x 51mm round hit the spinal cord; and epic demolition happened, as the marrow and the network of tiny bits of nerve spread. The bullet fragmented, but the touching of both the rib and the spine had severely redirected the spray, now heading rightwards.

00000

Elijah barely felt pain. What seemed like an extremely low-caliber shotgun blast erupted from the middle of the Tango's back, and barely two fragments grazed the renegade's abdominal region. The rest had hit the open door, causing small holes to appear.

What really shocked the Kurd was the kinetic power; it was more than enough to launch both men backwards, a moment felt in slow-motion, as this horrible process happened inside the Gunman's body, the victim of the attack was merely thrown backwards, feeling all the impact of the landing on the wooden floor.

The IRI infantry rushed to their positions; entrenching themselves among the wooden stands; opening fire with their Kalashnikovs, aiming poorly; the dust naturally formed a fog of war that made the situation just too confusing for all three sides. The five terrorists turned in panic as they saw the Tank advancing; but that wasn't their main concern. The three of them that were closer quickly rushed to cover, following logic; and fired back at the infantry. The panic was enough to make all the shots miss; the heavy recoil shot the ammunition in all directions:

Elijah Slervansk landed gruffly, and saw the enemy try to finish their jobs; without even pushing the corpse above him, he merely took his hand from below, holding the Browning, and still using the carcass as a form of shield; he fired the gun multiple times; the recoil was low, perhaps because the ammo was of low quality; but the rounds hit their targets; round after round, the two that were within his line of sight fell, twitching with every impact, and every time the slide went on a trip, back and fourth the rest of the gun.

Meanwhile, there of Hassan's men (and a support gunner) lay down suppressive fire, keeping the Shias at bay; even with .50 ammunitions flying around, it seemed that the mercenaries had the will to keep the entire Fast Response team at bay. The constant blazing of gunfire, the rain of empty shell casings, the devastating stresses were like drunks dancing around. The Shia vanguard was quickly mowed down by the fury of the Sunni's AKs, as their brownish uniforms were painted red and they fell, holding their guns like the Teddy Bears.

"The two of you! Circle around the homes and get Slervansk!" The squad leader shouted, not taking his eyes of the Kalashnikov's ironsights, and firing a five-round burst into one of the IRI troopers, sneaking in the Market Place. His two soldiers obeyed at once. Only one of his men was till standing; firing his AK, and an RPG in his back.

The Commander then looked forward, half crouched as to avoid the small arms fired coming from the Shias. The T-72 was already turning his turret, it would be stupid to believe they could evade a 125mm round, fired from a Tank's main turret. There was a solution; firing the RPG. The Sunni understood perfectly: while his boss fired the last few shots in his clip, he quickly hopped above a wooden table, and set his RPG in position.

The weapon was simple: a round metal tube, and a powerful warhead at the tip. It was extremely protuberant, and it was an advanced version of the WW2 era Panzerfaust, which was also disposable. The RPG's rudimentary iron sight (Obvious, given a Tank is usually an easy target) was quickly aligned with the turret; the only one shot he had would blow up the turret, kill all three men in the crew, and eliminate the 125mm gun. It would turn the tide of the lost battle. He fired; the huge head of the device got separated and sped forwards, leaving a white trail of smoke. The missile, thanks to gravity and fuel of most mysterious quality, started turning downwards, hitting the tank, only in the lower region.

Unlike what Hollywood shows, most Anti-Tank rockets don't blow up in huge explosions; quite on the contrary, the burning plasma is sent forwards, burning through the armor and the occupiers. This was not the exception; the round, hitting the lower part of the tank, blew the steel wheels and the driver to oblivion, gone. Instead of a huge fireball, all the IRI forces saw of their support vehicle was smoke ejecting violently and particles of burnt steel. The tank commander was charred as the fireball entered the tank. A small ignored fact remained; although the Gunner was dead, being struck by the pieces of metal and composite armor flying after the explosion, the 125mm gun remained intact.

00000

An ethnologist would have been charmed by the situation; as the Shias and the Sunnis killed each other outside, the Kurd leant on the wall, trying to make some sense. His head hurt horribly, his stomach was bleeding, and the rest of him was aching badly. Elijah Slervansk had better days indeed. The gun on his hand was, to his surprise, quite well maintained. He was glad to see that the three 15 round magazines were full indeed; the cartridges looked of acceptable quality, too. The gun itself wasn't loaded by a pro, though. There were originally 15 shots, proving that the Terrorist quartermaster (if they had such a thing) had not learnt the trick of loading an extra shot in the chamber. Eli had.

The gun clearly had, when it first showed up, 15 rounds. He made a count of his shots, trying to maintain consciousness; one shot of blow up the pins, and five to mow down the two gunmen. He had nine shots left in the gun, enough to survive. Plus other three mags, he had the more than acceptable quantity of 54 shots to fire. _Again, not half bad, _the renegade said to himself.

The walls were orange, but the floor didn't seem too good; he was, to his opinion, in the lower part of an apartment building. Eli advanced, his gun raised, in a sort of SWAT tactic, clearing the room through quick turns and not leaving a corner free to sneaky terrorists. He opened the door, reaching the well-lit hall. _No hostiles_, he said to himself as he verified, creeping his head from behind the open door.

Elijah was well aware that escape was the only option. He checked his watch: 3:00 PM. He just realized how hot he was, his traveling clothes soaked with sweat; and Eli now remembered that his luggage would reach Iraq soon; it was just a small, bureaucratic mistake. He hoped that IRI authorities were more forgiving with Delivery companies and not with Airlines.

00000

Zahyr entered the Apartment building through the back, covered by a man he didn't really like and a gun he hated using. That was the Nine Millimeters UZI, designed by Zionists, for Zionists. He wondered why Hassan, his boss, even cared about "Close Quarters capability"; heck, an AK had more power, and that was all that was needed, in his opinion.

The man behind him was Mohammed, (Zahyr knew at least thirty people with that name, something not surprising when one thinks about how it is the most popular name in the world.) It wasn't as much he hated him as he really didn't want to know him. In that business, it was better not to get too attached to people: Because people died. It was a fact, and no amount of religious teaching could change that. If any, it was the nice perspective that his partner would go to Heaven, fighting the infidels.

They both entered the first floor, knowing Slervansk wouldn't be far...

00000

Eli advanced slowly, weaving a pattern with his legs as he advanced in a way similar to SWAT officers, the Browning in his hand ready to fire. The home he entered was full of small objects; mostly decoration, and the pattern in the carpet on the floor made clear that Arabs lived there. It was well lit; a ray of sunshine entered through a window.

He walked forward, holding the gun with both his hands; but a sound came from the Left; a small sliding door; clearly a footstep, Elijah crouched and aimed the gun at the sliding door; a dark figure walked out easily, to quickly spot the Kurd and gasp; another female civilian, with her Burkha not covering her face. She was younger and taller (and more attractive) to the lady that had approached him in the marketplace.

"You! To the floor!" he shouted in English.

The lady shook her head; she didn't speak a word in English, he reasoned. He stepped forward, now aiming to her head. Elijah was a gentleman, not an idiot.

"_Emsiek! _" Eli growled, displaying his knowledge in Arabic. "_Marhaba salam alekom." _He said, as he smiled shyly. (Stop! Who are you?)

She understood him, and slowly raised her hands. The face showed clear worry; not everyday an Aryan-looking man storms your home with a handgun and is actually nice to you. _They were usually Arab-looking men storming, packing assault rifles and not being nice at all. _She started approaching slowly.

"B_ass or kefaya!_" The Kurd warned aggressively as he stretched his arms in order to make the gun look larger. A good trick when you want to scare someone. (Hold it right there!)

The woman shook up to Elijah's shouting, throwing her hands upwards and her head slightly behind, in utter terror. She stepped back as Eli slowly walked towards her; the gun aimed at her chest.

"Do you speak English?" He asked, slowly and clearly, as the woman slowly got on her knees.

"I can..." She answered, clearly troubled.

"Where am I?" Elijah asked, firmly.

"This is my home, sir... Please, don't do anything to..." She said in panic. Eli raised his eyes; there was a young child looking at him from behind the sliding door; the woman's child was dark and seemed confused. Eli decided it was best to ignore him.

"Stay where you are." He said, as he seated on a nearby chair; wooden and stiff, he had been more comfortable. He put the Browning in an improvised holster, his own belt, and started putting on the tactical harness (which was also uncomfortable). He then ran his hand through his forehead, feeling the layer of sweat. He was a mess.

The Kurd had bitten the bait, they decided. He quickly checked his not exactly pretty IMI UZI; there was indeed a round in chamber. He then peered; he was distracted, looking at the female civilian. He nodded to his companion. The submachine gun (term applied to any Machinegun that uses a Pistol Caliber) had thirty 9mm shots, more than enough to kill Slervansk and possibly the civilian, following his orders: not to leave any survivor.

The both slowly opened the door. The target turned his head in disbelief as they quickly rushed, moving their legs disproportionately and aiming their guns. They both quickly rose their hands in disbelief, only differently; while the civilian again showed no intention to fight, Eli responded by assuming an "Icarus" –Aiming the gun with slightly closed elbows to reduce recoil- position.

"Drop that weapon!" the insurgent growled, aiming his weapon at him. His voice noted lack of professionalism; he was a mad monkey with a gun. The eyes were wide open. Eli took a glance at the situation; the kid was crouched, trying not to be part of the situation. His mother's breathing was heavy. He didn't drop his gun.

"Let them go." Elijah stated, with eerie calm again.

"Drop your gun, little Persian shit." The other one had far superior English, and looked far more professional. His gun was set on the lady. Elijah wondered if Chivalry still existed in the world, and if all of this was worth it. This modern Knight knew he had to get the kid and the woman out of harm's way, yet wondered if his ancestors would have cared about those values, given they were fighting the knights in the crusades. Eli then cursed himself for letting his mind drift away from the situation.

He dropped the handgun without much wondering. It felt roughly, but no damage had been done. He had not even put a safety to it, and even left in the Double Action setting. That would mean that the hammer was cocked and that the shiest of trigger pulls would discharge the weapon. Eli's strategy would be a blitzkrieg in every sense of the word.

The second one spotted the child; Elijah felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. He knew that stakes had just risen. The tango made signs to the kid, and quickly went to grab him. The child had either not noticed, or was not surprised, at the fact that the man had an assault rifle. He returned, showing the little Arab to his mother, and both of them knew that the second the gunfight began, he would meet an early ending. Eli was just back of fighting for his own survival, but other's was just a different game.

"Let him go." Elijah stated.

"Come and take him." The terrorist bullied. Poor decision: a man without a gun is not necessarily unarmed, less if he went through Green Beret training. As he started his charge, he went through the CQC (Close Quarter Combat) manual all over his head; a sort of synthesized martial art developed for Special Forces use. He quickly performed an onslaught on the man on the Left, aiming at him, initiating enough pressure to cause an unwanted discharge of the Uzi, making the female got jumpy and cower, while the other terrorist pushed the kid forward a bit, confused.

Eli didn't fully detach his feet from the ground, instead, he pushed the tango out of the way, and quickly turned his attention to the terrorist on the right; the enemy was trying to get his AK in a position suitable for firing; feat impossible to accomplish in such small quarters, with two bodies so near him, and with the AK's size. Eli rushed and hit him with the palm of his hand in the middle of the chest, pushing him back, to the floor. He had, in less than four seconds, thrown both hostiles to the floor.

He then grabbed the AK, and threw it to the lady.

"_Roah!_" He said, as she took the Soviet Rifle and took her child, sprinting away.

The other terrorist slowly rose, and aimed the Uzi at the passing civilians. Eli knew that he couldn't rush to him and kick the gun out of his hands; that would rush the enemy, who was taking his time aiming. Eli reacted with a level of intelligence amazing for the situation. In a blink of an eye, he leaped across the room and rolled his way towards the Browining, set in perfect conditions to allow him to shoot. He grabbed it with a single hand, aimed quickly but not precisely. By the time the enemy had set the Uzi in a practical position, Elijah delivered seven shots with the browning. Needless to say, five of those hit the enemy in multiple areas, causing him internal bleeding and death.

He approached the body with professionalism. He was pretty dead; the blankness of his eyes and the bleeding said so. The other was already twitching; He reached for one of the Grenades on his pocket.

"Allahu Ackb... " Before he finished his war cry and pulled the pin, Eli emptied the magazine in his head, one shot after the other. The slide of the Browning was pulled backwards, which meant that it had run out of ammo. He pressed the magazine ejector, and instead of letting it fall like in the movies, he grabbed it. If he was lucky, he'd find a 9mm ammo box somewhere, and he'd reload the magazine.

He noticed (not without some surprise) that of the three magazines he had in his harness, two were filled with Full Metal Jacketed Rounds (that being ammunitions using a metal covering to aid penetration) and the other one was filled with Jacketed Hollow Pointed ammunitions, cartridges that had their tip pierced so that with the hot air, the projectile would "flourish" in mid air, making it bigger, and instead of piercing the target, ripping through it. JHP's were horrible in terms of accuracy and penetration, but firing at close ranges, against unarmored enemies, they were deadly, if brutal.

He inserted an FMJ magazine, and then lowered the lever, returning the slide to the normal position, and thus placing a Round in the Browning's chamber. He glanced around him; evading the enemy was not going to be easy. He had an idea. He searched the body of the terrorist on the left; he still packed the Uzi, and a military uniform; Woodland pattern trousers and a black shirt. It took him just a couple of minutes to get undressed, leaving only his socks and his boxer left on, and to remove the dead terrorists' uniform. Eli noticed that the shirt was pierced repeatedly and covered in blood by his own shots. He took the other terrorist's, which was olive.

It took his around five minutes to dress the terrorist on the left with his clothes, and exchanging uniforms. He was now wearing the woodland pants and the olive shirt, but that was not enough. Now, there was the problem of ethnicity: Eli needed the Camouflage he was now wearing, but the terrorist would be discovered, given his hair was black, and the subject's was blond. Eli took an extreme measure.

He reached the enemy's Uzi; there were still 21 shots in it. He slowly passed the 9mm bullets from the Uzi's magazine to the empty Browning magazine. As he reached the 15 shots, he reinserted the Uzi magazine, with only 6 bullets left in it. He pulled the Uzi's bolt, reading for another shot, and aimed towards the dead terrorist's scalp.

He fired all 6 shots in quick succession; the hair was now covered in blood and the face was a bloody mess. He considered grabbing the Uzi, but there was a problem; this was not the usual American micro-Uzi, but the Israeli made standard Uzi, that had a wooden stock and thus, impossible to conceal. He decided to leave it, and make the bad guys believe that he had taken the Uzi with him. Eli walked away, trying to figure out how to escape the apartments.

00000

Fort Meade, Maryland, National Security Agency's command center.

"Sir..." The operator called Sharp, hurriedly. William had just arrived to what they called "The God Room"; the command center in which they operated their satellites; Dark, and reminiscent of a Submarine's control room, the "God Room" had around 20 NSA operators working on 12 hours shifts, following different areas. Sharp had reached the spot, in order to command the efforts to locate Elijah Slervansk. "We just caught an Iraqi Military transmission. It's a mess, sir, they killed some Sunni militiamen, and..."

"Slow down. What does this have to do with Slervansk?" Sharp asked, quietly.

"Witnesses in the area claim that the dead gunmen held a Persian-looking man at gun point before the IRI authorities stepped in." The operator was a kid, barely 21 years old, his eyes hysterical and focused on his commander, loyal as a crazy rabbit.

"You think that's Slervansk?"

"No Kurd would get into Baghdad if he wanted to live, that's for sure. The Sunni nationalists hate them with all their souls, and the IRI barely tolerates them because of their Ethnic link with the Iranians."

"It's a funny connection; The Shiites share their religion with the Iranians, that being Shia Islam, and the Kurds share their ethnicity with the Iranians, but that doesn't help in the negotiating table, does it?"

"You could say so, sir."

"Anyway. Any luck tracking Slervansk?" He returned to the task at hand rather bluntly.

"No Good. Thermal sensors show people running into nearby buildings. In a perfect world, we could identify people by their body temperature, but as you can imagine, everyone has the same one." The technician explained.

"Maybe, if we could put a tracker into the fucker..."

"The only way we can do that is _in-situ_. That would mean sending operatives, personnel..."

"I am aware of the legal implications, Tom." Sharp thought for a second. "Call me when the next satellite passes by Iraq. "

"That's in around eight hours, sir. It's one of ours."

"Good. If my wife calls, tell her I'm saving the world."

00000

Baltimore, Maryland.

Retired Colonel Roy Campbell's home in D.C. was welcoming, but the Hotel in Baltimore he was given (to fit his relocation to Fort Meade) was creepy at best. Room 213 had a reddish atmosphere, given the carpet and the wallpaper. He decided he needed some sleep; the paperwork regarding this new unit was exhausting,

He undressed and went to bed. A man of his age, even with his excellent shape, had limits, and he enjoyed a bit of rest. As he closed his eyes, falling into a deep sleep, the phone rang: an energetic series of beeps that made his brain jump. He picked the tube.

"Mr. Campbell?" The boring voice of the receptionist appeared.

"What is it?"

"A lady named Meryl Silverbourgh called. Do I patch her through?"

"Yes." He said, opening his eyes violently.

"Uncle?" A croaky, young female voice answered, she was a mess of nerves and Roy could sense that.

"Meryl?" He asked, patiently.

"I needed to call you... " She said, a bit scared. "It's been almost a year, and..."

"You need someone to talk to?"

"It isn't that."

"What is it, then?"

Meryl seemed to look for the right words.

"A man called home. He said he was a certain Colonel William Sharp."

"Sharp? Motherf... What did he tell you?" Campbell grumbled a bit; Sharp was in charge of the operation regarding Elijah Slervansk, and that couldn't be good.

"He says that he talked to my C.O., and that I need to go to Baltimore with you."

"I don't like this."

"Me neither."

00000

Eastern Iraq, 30 miles off the Iranian border.

"My sights are hot. Two sentries, 120 meters away." Gunnery Sergeant David Hazansky, Spotter for the Sniper Team attached to the 10th Special Forces group, informed through his radio. This scouting mission would prove dangerous, he was sure.

The 10th Special Forces Group encompassed 1400 soldiers. He belonged to the 3rd Battalion, 1st Company, Fourth Team, which were units of roughly 12 men. He was a Green Beret; a member of the Special Forces Operational Detachment A, a well trained operator in tasks of Antiterrorism, Reconnaissance, direct action, guerilla warfare, anything. He, however, was under the specific command of Master Sergeant Michael Lee, commander of the Sniper Team assigned to the Fourth Team. He was lying a foot away, his weapon being a gargantuan Barret M95 Anti-Material Sniper Rifle: a huge rifle of silver colors, Infrared scope and a barrel that looked like a pipe.

Meanwhile, Hazansky, a polish-ascendancy young Spotter, had a Bolt-Action L24 sniper rifle; chambered for the 7,62 x 51mm NATO round, and an accurate range of 750 meters, the L24 was the Sniper Rifle of choice of the US Military, with the possible exception of the Marine Corps's M40A1. Sly and dark, it was the perfect anti-infantry device to balance out Lee's M95.

"Roger that, Rifle-2." Lee responded. "I won't fire just yet. Fire team Alpha is in position already."

"Good. I'll take the Sentry on the Left, and I'll leave McTarant's crew to deal with the rest."

"Carry on, Rifle-2."

00000

The shot sounded harsh in the Iraqi twilight, one of the sentries guarding the back entry to an abandoned Armored Division's base, from Saddam's era, fell with a screech. The bullet had gone right through his chest, and his partner, as he saw the splash of blood in the wall, turned desperate and reached his AK.

In that moment, a four-man fire team (Alpha, commanded by Lieutenant Roger McTarant, a young Irish-American Officer from Idaho), rushed from below the sound, in their desert camouflage BDU, and the forward man, Corporal Craig Hernandez, did a great job, firing an instinctual double shot from his M4A2 SOPMOD, quickly eliminating the enemy subject.

The four-man team (that had left their HMMVV with another team that was coordinating the assault) rushed to the entrance bunker's door. They had done this a gazillion times before in Training; room clearing was a science, and it had been so documented that the procedure was mechanized in their minds.

"State your numbers." McTarant demanded, softly, at the entrance.

"One." Craig Hernandez claimed.

"Two." The Lieutenant clarified.

"Three." Ali Marawki, the Arab translator, was assigned to team Alpha.

"Four." Martin Jenkins, the black SAW Operator, hissed.

"Alright, boys, let's rock." Roger said, showing some stress.

The procedure went well: Hernandez, AKA 1, opened the door violently. No hostiles forward, and the room was dark. It wasn't good. Following, Marawki threw in a M67 Pineapple Grenade into the room, five second fuse.

"Fire in the hole!"

The grenade flew in, blew up, in a brute sound that made his ears sore, and then the plan was in motion. Hernandez busted in, M4 ready, and as soon as he entered the room, started strafing towards his left. He quickly noticed an Insurgent, turning around after being shaken by the Grenade. Craig fired his Carbine instinctively to his back, both shots landing, causing small, oozing holes, yet not knocking his target.

McTarant, number two, entered right after, but instead of taking his Left like Hernandez, he marched forward; they both covered the room efficiently; he also saw the insurgent, and fired a three-round burst at his head; the cranium popped and the enemy fell to the floor like a mannequin hit by a bulldozer.

Marawki entered, and took his left, following Hernandez. Yet, by the time it was over, Jenkins also took McTarant's path. The room was clear.

"Cap'n..." McTarant used his headphone, contacting the Squad's commander. "We took out the Communications outpost... Bring in the HMMVV's, we need extraction."

00000

Baghdad, Sunni Triangle; Security Status; Orange Alert

Slervansk had evaded his hunters, for now. He was again alone, this time wearing an Insurgent uniform – If they could be called that way- and looking tired. He had killed men before, but he had never fought so close and personal; heck, in Iraq, most of the kills where either in rush CQB maneuvers in which you couldn't even see the enemy's face, or 30 meters away. Nothing like shooting the baddie and then having to strip him.

He heard a shy machine noise behind him, as he walked alone, in a sidewalk. The Iraqi downtown was under curfew of IRI forces; and Eli knew that if he had barely escaped from Guerillas, what chances did he have against a regular army? He turned around; an American made Ford pickup. His eyes quickly narrowed; the vehicle started approaching him, increasingly slow. He could see the driver clearly. An Arab man, smiling, with a five O' Clock Shadow and thin skull, he was about 60 years old, but seemed rather healthy.

"You seem lost, my friend." He said, in excellent English. Elijah didn't give away his cover.

"_Ana mabsoot, ana kowayes._" Eli said, carefully, and analyzing the man. I am fine

"No need for that. It seems like you need a Cup of Coffee." He said. _What a gentleman_, Elijah told himself. Who was this man? The Kurd's curiosity was still one of his worst enemies.

"Thank you." He said, not without doubting first. "What's your name, sir?"

"Mahmoud Shalab." He said, smiling. _Maybe a College Professor?_

"That's weird. My middle name's Mahmoud."

"What's your First name, Tired Pilgrim?"

"I'd rather not say..." Elijah made it clear as softly as he could.

"Are you running from someone?" He asked, in a paternal way.

"Maybe you saw them." Slervansk's voice gained a glint of sarcasm. "They wear black balaclavas, and like to shoot their rifles into the air."

The driver cracked a smile. "You are not unarmed yourself." He had seen the Browning. _Damnit. _

"Shouldn't you be packing too?" Eli asked. He didn't need to explain why; the man was too rich for the neighborhood, and didn't seem to be the head Anti-American chump in the land.

"Who says I'm not?" He extended his arm; in the passenger's seat, laid an AK rifle.

"Is that Kalashnikov loaded?"

"It's a Chinese version, according to the man who sold it, and it IS loaded."

"Wonderful."

"Get in. I suppose there's a lot of men after you."

"Where are we going?" Eli asked.

"Not Fallujah." He said, smiling, presuming his guest had heard about the riots. "I live further down south, in the Shia area."

"You a Shiite?" He asked, revealing caution, but not fear.

"Yes, I am. Not a Fanatic one, though."

"That's really great."

"C'mon, we don't have forever."

The drive wasn't long; the curfew, enforced by armed IRI footmen, kept the civilians at home. For some reason, Shalab wasn't stopped at any point by the camouflage-wearing army. They seemed to recognize him; if he was a member of the IRI Government, then Elijah had made his worst mistake yet. Fortunately, he was wrong. They remained silent the whole trip, Eli constantly glancing. He wouldn't be ambushed again.

Slervansk entered Shalab's home slowly, the open door and his invitation was not good enough; the place looked neat, rather Western, certainly much more comfortable than the Apartment he had stormed earlier. He had to leave; there was no point endangering a woman and her child for no reason. Slervansk knew he was a human jinx, and it was clear Shalab knew it too – He, again, extended his arm, telling Elijah to sit at the kitchen table. It looked nice. Maybe Shalab was married?

"You must understand, Pilgrim, that if I'm going to allow an enemy of that Angry Mob, I'd prefer knowing as much as I can about his situation, don't you think?"

Elijah gave a cold look at the man. "Do you really want to know?"

"May I presume you don't know?" He asked, sitting down, then rising again, quickly. "I'll get you some Coffee."

"That won't be..." Elijah said, quickly.

"I don't mind. It's an Arabic tradition, after all." He said, as he headed for a drawer.

"I just don't know what happened; I came here, and there was this bunch of Gunmen waiting for me. They had Snipers, Technicals, they even had a escape plan!" Elijah vented off. "It's almost as if I was walked into a trap."

"So, why are you here? You don't like England?" He asked, as he crushed the grains.

"I wanted to come." Elijah said, somewhat directed at himself. "I figured I would just head to Hisdan and..." Elijah opened his eyes wide when he realized he slipped.

"Syed Hisdan? Have you lost your mind?" The Old man lost a bit of balance as he turned around towards Elijah, his eyes filled with horror.

"That's what I keep telling myself. Who is this Hisdan anyway?"

"A Warlord." He said, as he handed Elijah his cup. "And one of America's darkest secrets."

"He was CIA?" The Kurd jerked as he heard that last line.

"No; Quite in the contrary. Syed was one of Saddam Hussein's worst henchmen. Everything you heard that Saddam did to his people, Syed was involved in. Expert in torture, he would just take someone, make them experience hell, made them forget all they loved, in a whirlwind of pain... At the end, you were either dead, or a crushed man, Saddam Hussein's little worshipper, whose mind only remembers pain and hatred." Mahmoud's eyes got wet. He was remembering something.

Elijah listened. This wasn't far from any means from what he believed happened to Layla. He didn't explode in anger. He controlled himself, took a shy sip of his coffee, and then shot again. "How do you know all this?"

"Because..." Mahmoud pulled from his sleeve; the white shirt slowly retreating to reveal torn flesh, an old battleground. The skin was burnt, stabbed, broken.

"I'm sorry." Elijah said, lowly. "If you don't want to talk about it..."

"It's perfectly alright, Pilgrim." He said, covering the scar. "I got this when my son was captured by Saddam's men; he allegedly had taken part in the Shia rebellion in 1992. He was only 17, Pilgrim." The pain in Mahmoud's eyes was still there; He cared more about his son than his own wounds. "They believed the rest of the family was involved. He also met Syed Hisdan. He didn't walk out alive... All I got was a scar in my arm."

"This was in 1992?" Elijah decided not let his emotions affect him.

"Yes." Mahmoud's eyes seemed lost.

"When would you think Hisdan started working for the Baathists?"

"He seemed like a genius. As if he were doing this since he was 20."

"Would you think he'd be torturing Kurds towards the end of the Iraq-Iran war?" Elijah asked, professionally.

"I'm sure. He once tried to show me what he was capable of. He showed me a cut-out blue eye, and said it was from a Kurd he had killed in 1988. It is plausible." Mahmoud let off a sigh. "He said he preserved it in a jar filled with formaldehyde."

Elijah leaned his head back. "Is he still alive?" Slervansk had overlooked the possibility that the man he might end up killing was already dead.

"Oh, Yes! Hisdan is still influential. After the Iraq War, he became unemployed. It was believed that he was hunted by the CIA and Mossad for a couple of years. It is said he captured a Mossad officer, a Sephardic Jew, I believe, kept him at his home in Fallujah and tortured him for four entire days with his car's batteries, until he suffered a Heart attack. The Israeli was only 26. Do you know how much pain it takes to make a 26 year old die from a Heart Attack?" Elijah didn't answer. " He gained some reputation among this so-called "Resistance", and I heard he is now employed in Ansar Al-Islam, hunting down possible traitors. Did I mention he was an Interrogation expert? "

"I think you glossed over it." Elijah said.

"Be my guest, Tired pilgrim. I still have my Child's room. I haven't been able to even enter it..." Mahmoud shook his head. "Then, at morning, we can pray together, and then, I'll help you with whatever you need." Elijah couldn't reject such offer. He was still human, no matter how much effort he put into denying it.

That didn't mean he would sleep.

00000

Fort Meade, Maryland, USA.

William Sharp was increasingly nervous. The hallway was long, but mostly empty; most NSA officers were at home at that point; After all, it was just a regular day for most of them. Being a Colonel at such an early age had made Bill into a bit of an oddball; it seemed Politics and Espionage were the usual things for him.

The man he expected approached silently. Extremely tall, with short jet-black hair and an extremely formal black suit, approached. He seemed majestic, taking long steps towards Sharp.

"Colonel William Sharp?" He asked. His voice was low and grave.

"The same." He answered, shifting his head slightly upwards.

"I'm Dr. Nathan Lars Harker, from the Central Intelligence Agency." He extended his arm. Bill shook his hand accordingly. There was something about his Formal ways that Sharp didn't like.

"Nathan Harker? Your parents were into Dracula or something?"

"Actually, my father had no idea about Bram Stoker's novel, it was my Mother that came up with it. " he said, trying to break the ice. Somewhat pale, Bill could well see Dr. Harker in a Vampire story, though not exactly as a good guy. "So, tell me, why do you need the Agency's help?"

"I was expecting an Inter-Agency consultant, actually." Bill said. The two started walking towards his office. "What's your field, Doc?"

"I'm a jack-of-all-trades, actually, but my specialty is Law." He said, slowly. He sort of looked like an Attorney. "Apparently, there's some doubts regarding the legality of Slervansk's operation in Iraq."

Bill seemed surprised, but still annoyed. The CIA guy was as smug as they came. "So, before the CIA can help us, you must verify this entire thing is legal? What sort of Intelligence Agency are you?"

"One with Rules, Colonel." Nathan informed, and Bill was liking Nathan less and less. "As you must know, the CIA has forbidden to commit political assassinations. If we kill, it's to protect our identities, but murder is never the mission objective, despite what those crazy Liberals in Hollywood want to show. Now, from that point of view, we cannot aid the NSA in the assassination of Syed Hisdan."

"Holy fuck." Bill blurted. "You can't be serious."

"On the other hand, Elijah Slervansk is not technically part of any US Intelligence Agency. In short, Laws don't apply to him. It could be even claimed the NSA is not interested in seeing Hisdan die, they are just letting Slervansk do it."

"Then why doesn't Langley move?"

"Because, when the trial happens, and it will, the Military Attorney will easily claim that Slervansk is what we call a NOC Agent; a non-official operative, without any sort of Diplomatic Protection, therefore, invisible to the authorities. As I was saying, the CIA has no way to prove Slervansk is not a NOC."

"What if the NSA takes responsibility?"

"The NSA is an Intel gathering agency, officially, so the Ops department is, technically, the CIA's bitch. Now, NSA field operatives are subject to the same laws as those who work for the CIA, the FBI and the DIA."

"In short, Slervansk could be a NOC for either agency?"

"That's what the Military Attorney will tell the JAG and a jury. The CIA can't release their NOC list, for safety reasons. In short, we'll have to plead guilty, sinking more careers than I can count."

It took them a couple of minutes the reach the office. Sharp's office was rather dull, far from original, and certainly just now acquired. Sharp kept a picture of a pretty Black Woman in his desk, her wife, Alexandra. The Desk itself was rather old and the office hadn't yet been decorated, it was impersonal, and that made Harker extremely comfortable.

"Is there any way to avoid this trial?" Sharp asked.

"It won't be easy, you see. At some point, someone's going to notice Hisdan dying. Even if it isn't an Iraqi, it is possible for some Analyst to dig up the mission file. At some point, Slervansk's file will come up and some of those damn analysts actually consider telling the JAG some dirty secrets as a way to climb the ladder." Harker explained, slightly annoyed. He seemed honorable, and seemed angry when he mentioned the analysts. "How many people are into this op anyway?"

"So far, less than a Hundred. About Twenty of them are part of the Satellite team we have tracking Slervansk. There are about fifteen guys in the Higher Administration that need to know that I'm working on this. Then, there are a handful of Inter-Agency liaisons on this, not to mention that we have been talking to some guys at the Department of Defense. Even the USSOCOM (United States Special Operations Command) is in on this."

"SOCOM? What the fuck? As far as I'm concerned, recruitment is usually up to the regional Station Director, right? Even if the guy was top-notch, it would never go beyond the NSA Director." Nathan sounded perplexed and intrigued. His eyes were more visible now and he leaned forwards, speaking in a secretive fashion.

"That would be the SOP (Standard Operational Procedure) but it turns out Mr. Slervansk is being recruited for a Presidential Initiative. That's why USSOCOM is in on this; Apparently, Slervansk has some sort of connection with the Shadow Moses Fiasco." There was no need to tell Harker about ECLIPSE, Sharp decided. He'd end up telling him anyway.

"Presidential Initiative? Shouldn't POTUS be watching after his own little experiments?" Nathan complained.

"Don't be so dense. President Johnson will be briefed. So far, the highest ranking official involved is the Secretary of Defense. He knows Slervansk has slipped out of contact, anyway. There's also a guy from the General Staff, one General Irvine Garret. " Sharp explained, a bit concerned.

"Jesus Christ... Who is this Slervansk?" Harker showed emotion for the very first time. His head was raised dramatically, and his hands moved when he talked.

"I'm telling you, Nathan, as a coworker. Of the whole 100 people involved, only 10 actually know who Elijah Slervansk is. You'll join the club." Bill explained, leaning against the chair, with certain mysticism. "Were you briefed on the Shadow Moses Fiasco?"

"Only the headlines. _"Next Generation Special Forces, led by Rogue Agents of Fox-Hound,_ _has Rebelled. They are holed up in a Civilian Installation in Alaska, they got shot up_." Why?" Nathan asked, increasingly hooked.

"Well, it's not that simple. Anyway, after the destruction of FOX-HOUND, the boys at SOCOM got pretty pissed, because they no longer could attack as covertly as they could with Fox-Hound. Sears received a lot of Whining from DOD during what was left of his Administration. Johnson gave in, and decided to recreate the unit. Turns up someone big Upstairs came up with the wonderful idea of go on with the Hunter Solider Gene theory."

"The one that says that a Soldier's talent comes from his Genes? That crazy bitch really wanted her fucking Eugenics experiment to get going. I know because I was in the hearing. The guys at her company, AGCL, wanted a Contract with DOD. Seems they got it."

"Yes, and that contract is not yet over. Though the Gene Therapy business has been discarded, it seems SOCOM still wants to play with Genes. Fox-Hound's genes. They decided, in order not to break up Sears's "No-Eugenics-in-Military" initiative, to search Blood Relatives of the Shadow Moses terrorists, and use Naomi Hunter's plan to train them."

"Fucked up." Nathan's eyes were wide open. "That way, you can avoid a lot troubles with Congress, right?"

_Always politics with you, huh? _Bill wanted to answer back.

"Yeah, only you are drafting non-Americans based on Genetics to form a Spec Ops unit. A lot of people don't like our policies." Bill said. "Do you really want a horde of Republicans calling us Nazis?"

"Don't tell me about it. I joined during the Bush Administration. I was in Harvard at the time I got recruited for the CIA. The environment was tough." Nathan seemed so annoyingly pompous in Bill's eyes, he didn't even respond to that. "Which is funny. My Wife's Father and Mother survived working as slaves in a Mercedes Benz factory during the Second World War."

Bill normally would have asked whether the Kids were going through Christian or Jewish education, but didn't. That would just lead to Nathan spouting his BS again. "Anyways, Slervansk is part of this group. That's why President Johnson is so obsessed with finding them."

"Who's your SOCOM liaison?"

"A Specially recruited, hand-picked, Retired Colonel that was with the Counter-Terrorist force at Shadow Moses. Ever heard of a Roy Campbell?"

"Can't say I have."

"The man is a Former Marine, but he worked for Delta as a Strategist. He's very intelligent and is involved in staffing this new Unit. "

"I'd like to have a talk to him, if you don't mind."

"Me? Mind?"


End file.
